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**  You  needn't  tell  me.  Ma  Potts — I  guess  I  know  these  pies." 


Blue  Gingham  Folks 


BY 


DOROTHY  DONNELL  CALHOUN 


THE    ABINGDON    PRESS 
NEW  YORK  CINCINNATI 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
DOROTHY  DONNELL   CALHOUN 


TO  MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 


2229055 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Blue  Gingham  Folks 11 

Miss  Patience  and  the  Savages 33 

Her  Pink  Hour 51 

A  Haircloth  Mutiny 67 

Ancestors  and  Prather 85 

Late  Blooming 109 

Sairy Ann's  Dying 129 

The  Lord's  Kind 147 

A  Mute  Inglorious  Milton 165 

John  Junior's  Harvest 185 

Rosemary  for  Remembering 207 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Pagb 

"You  needn't  tell  me.  Ma  Potts — I  guess  I  know  these 

pies." 2 

With  a  flourish  Tilly- Ann  lifted  the  pot  lid 44 

Her  eyes,  peering  into   the   shadowed   recesses,  sought 

out  other  treasures 104 

He  had  her  in  his  arms  with  breathless  words 204 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"T  "E  7H0A,  Dolly,  whoa !"  Pa  gave  the  reins 
VV  a  reminding  twitch  and  the  old  horse 
ambled  to  an  obedient  standstill  in  front  of 
the  barn  door.  The  necessity  of  "whoa-ing" 
Dolly  departed  with  a  frisky  colthood,  but  Pa 
still  said  it.  Indeed,  he  did  not  know  that  the 
"colt"  had  long  ago  grown  to  be  an  old  horse 
with  graying  hair  and  scanty  mane. 

As  he  clambered  stiffly  out  over  the  edge  of 
the  pung  into  the  snowy  yard  the  mild  flurry 
of  excitement  in  his  heart  contradicted  the 
twinges  in  his  legs  and  the  protesting  creaks 
of  his  old  joints  in  the  cold.  In  the  midst  of 
his  unharnessing  in  the  hay-sweet  gloom  of 
the  barn  his  fingers  often  sought  the  corner 
of  the  stiff  white  envelope  protruding  from  his 
great-coat  pocket,  as  if  warming  themselves 
on  it. 

"Land  a-livin',  Dolly,"  chuckled  Pa,  softly, 
into  the  great  friendly  ear  nearest  him,  "ain't 
we  brought  home  a  su'prise  to  Ma,  you'n'  me? 

13 


14  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

To  think  we  drove  down  town  after  a  pound  o^ 
coffee  and  a  yeast  cake  and  come  back  with 
this!" 

Jubilantly  Pa's  lips  puckered  into  whistling 
trim.  The  shrill  cracked  joyousness  of  "March- 
ing through  Georgia"  trailed  across  the  snowy 
dusk  of  the  yard  to  Ma,  who  was  watching  in 
the  kitchen  window.  Pa  always  marched 
through  Georgia  when  something  pleased  him. 

In  the  wake  of  the  sound  came  Pa  himself, 
shuffling  the  snow  from  his  boots  in  cheerful 
stamps  upon  the  floor  of  the  porch.  A  warm 
whiff  of  good  oven-odors  hurried  to  meet  him 
at  the  door — a  hint  of  mince  pies,  a  promise 
of  chicken  stew — and  with  them  Ma,  wiping 
her  hands  on  her  blue  gingham  apron  in  a 
plump  little  whirl  of  curiosity. 

"Something's  happened — ^you  needn't  tell 
me,  Peter  Potts !"  she  clamored,  mildly  insist- 
ent. "I  guess  I  know  the  happening  sound  o' 
that  whistle  after  bein'  married  to  it  goin'  on 
forty  years." 

Pa  lingered  pleasurably  on  the  ragged  edge 
of  his  news,  making  a  great  task  of  struggling 
out  of  his  overcoat  and  knitted  muffler. 

"I  see  Miss  Piper  in  the  post  office,"  he  re- 
marked, guilefully.    "She  wanted  I  should  tell 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  15 

you  there  was  goin'  to  be  a  meetin'  of  the 
Ladies'  Aid  to  her  house  come  Thursday  and  to 
be  sure  to  get  down  to  it.  The  minister  was 
shovelling  off  the  front  piazza  of  the  parsonage 
when  I  drove  by.  The  Carney  young  ones  and 
Lou  Tibbit's  boy  has  cleared  off  part  of  the 
duck  pond  on  the  common,  an' — " 

"Peter  Potts!"  Ma's  tone  held  gentle  exas- 
peration. She  reached  up  on  tiptoe  and  cut 
off  Pa's  flow  of  news  with  a  firm  hand.  "Now 
tell  me." 

Pa's  fingers,  fumbling  obediently  in  the 
cavern  of  his  overcoat  pocket,  emerged  with 
the  square  white  envelope.  Solemnly  he  held 
it  out  to  Ma.  Solemnly  her  water-reddened 
fingers  came  to  meet  it. 

"It— it  isn't?    Pa,  I'm  afraid  to  look !" 

"Good  news  don't  bite.  Ma." 

Across  the  odorous  kitchen  the  fussy  hissing 
of  the  teakettle  and  the  saucepan  lids  bobbing 
over  the  fire  shared  the  friendly  little  silence 
w^ith  the  drip,  drip  of  the  melting  snow  on  the 
eaves  outside.  Suddenly  Ma's  hands  sought 
her  apron  strings,  untying  them  jerkily. 

"I've  been  wearing  a  blue-checked  apron  for 
forty  years,"  she  said,  slowly.  "Now  I  guess 
it's  high  time  I  took  it  off." 


16  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

She  smoothed  out  the  strings  with  absent 
care  and  folded  them  primly,  ceremoniously. 
At  the  same  time  she  seemed  to  have  untied 
the  forty  years  of  wearing  it. 

Suddenly  she  drew  a  long  breath.  "I'm  goin' 
to  wear  my  second-best  alpaca  every  day  from 
now  on,"  she  cried,  radiantly,  "and  I'll  get  me 
a  new  bunnit  for  meeting.  Pa!  Pa!  I  feel's 
if  I  could  be  a  better  Methodist  in  a  velvet 
bunnit  with  a  bunch  o'  pink  roses  on."  She 
laughed  up  at  Pa  in  trembling  excitement. 
"We  said  when  it  got  to  ten  thousand  we'd  stop 
savin'  and  scrimpin'  and  start  in  livin'.  We 
set  that  as  our  stent,  you  remember.  Pa?" 

Peter  Potts  nodded,  his  eyes  vague  with 
recollection.  It  had  been  a  long  time  since 
they  had  gloated  together  over  the  first  tiny 
entry  in  the  blue  bank  book  in  Ma's  hand. 

The  figures  had  toiled  across  its  waiting 
pages  by  slow  stages.  It  is  not  easy  to  wring 
ten  thousand  dollars  from  a  rocky  little  farm 
and  a  small  carpenter's  shop.  In  the  wringing, 
Pa's  back  had  grown  bent  and  Ma's  fingers 
housework-calloused.  But  now  their  stent  was 
finished.    Pa  nodded  solemnly  down  at  Ma. 

"We'll  retire  from  business,  you'n'  me,  Ma. 
We've  aimed  the  right  to  a  little  pleasurin'  if 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  17 

anybody  has,  I  guess.  I've  done  my  last  job 
carpentering — you've  baked  your  last  pie — " 

"Land!"  Ma  dropped  the  precious  letter 
on  the  table  in  a  panic  of  haste  and  hurried 
ovenward  with  agitated  steps,  catching  up  the 
blue  gingham  apron  as  she  went.  A  pleasant, 
unburned  smell  oozed  reassuringly  out  into  the 
room  and  the  tense  anxiety  of  Ma's  face  relaxed 
into  relief. 

"It  doesn't  pay  to  take  your  mind  out  o'  the 
oven,  when  there's  pies  in  it,''  sighed  Ma,  self- 
reproachfully.  "I  hope  the  maid'll  remember 
that.  You  needn't  laugh,  Peter  Potts,  I  guess 
I  c'n  call  her  maid  if  I  want  to.  It  sounds 
more  like  folksy  than  plain  4iired  girl' !" 

Pa  Potts  was  not  laughing.  Instead  he 
stooped  down  awkwardly  over  defiant  little 
Ma  and  in  a  clumsy,  unaccustomed  fashion 
kissed  her  on  her  cheek.  The  kiss  surprised 
and  embarrassed  them  both,  lingering  in  the 
lamp-bright  kitchen  like  a  pleasant  unfamiliar 
presence.    In  New  England  a  kiss  is  an  event. 

"Land  sakes,  Pa!"  breathed  Ma  in  soft 
amazement. 

Forty  years  ago  Peter  had  kissed  her,  over 
the  first  entry  in  the  little  blue  bank  book.  She 
looked  up  at  him  now  in  queer  and  tender 


18  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

shyness,  gently  near-sighted  to  his  bald  spot 
and  the  crook  in  his  shoulders  from  carpenter- 
ing. Then  hastily  she  veered  from  the  danger- 
ous edge  of  sentiment,  bustling  across  the  room 
to  the  stove  with  brisk  rattling  of  saucepan  lids 
and  pots. 

"Mis'  Deacon  Clark  was  tellin'  Sunday, 
about  a  likely  girl  from  round  Ragged  Hill 
district  that  wanted  to  hire  out,"  she  called 
back  matter-of-factly  from  the  fragrant  cloud 
of  steam.  "To-morrow  you  c'n  hitch  up  Dolly 
and  we'll  drive  round  there  and  see.  Now  it's 
high  time  I  got  dinner  dished  up — pa'snips 
won't  wait  for  bank  books — I  can't  abide  'em 
when  they  get  all  mushed,  standin'.  And  Pa" 
— Ma's  voice  dropped  to  the  level  of  solemnity 
fitting  the  occasion — "you  go  to  the  spare  room 
cupboard  an'  bring  out  a  jar  o'  my  premium 
damson  preserves  an'  a  loaf  o'  fruit  cake.  We'll 
celebrate,  Pa!" 

The  new  life  of  Pa  and  Ma  dated  from  the 
coming  of  Gussie  Doolittle  of  the  Ragged  Hill 
district  the  next  afternoon.  At  the  first 
glimpse  of  her.  Ma  saw  the  cherished  plan  of 
a  "maid"  disappearing  beneath  a  wide  freckled 
smile.  Gussie  was  a  hired  girl  from  the  tight 
nub  of  her  red  hair  to  the  broad  soles  of  her 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  19 

feet.  She  was  unimaginable  in  a  frilly  cap 
and  beribboned  apron.  Her  name,  too,  filled 
Ma  with  grave  doubts.  Gussie  Doolittle 
sounded  as  if  she  would  forget  the  pies ! 

But  she  was  hired  and  assumed  her  heritage 
of  blue-checked  gingham  apron  under  Ma's 
critical  eyes.  The  apron  did  not  look  at  home 
on  a  hired  girl,  somehow.  Accustomed  to  Ma's 
comfortable  wideness  of  waist,  it  dangled 
limply  about  Gussie's  sharp  knees  in  dis- 
consolate folds. 

"But  you  can't  hire  a  girl  to  fit  an  apron," 
sighed  Ma  later  in  the  dim  primness  of  the 
tiny  front  parlor,  where  she  and  Pa  were  sit- 
ting "like  folks"  in  the  strange  luxury  of  idle- 
ness. 

Pa,  stiffly  erect  on  the  uneasy  edge  of  the 
haircloth  sofa,  beneath  the  crayoned  eyes  of  a 
grim  row  of  ancestors  in  black  walnut  frames, 
looked  up  from  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs  with 
obvious  relief.  The  starched  splendor  of  a 
white  shirt  bosom  chafed  his  chin  unaccus- 
tomedly,  and  his  humble  old  shoulders  sagged 
abashed  beneath  the  broadcloth  dignity  of  his 
Prince  Albert  coat. 

"I  don't  know  why  'tis,"  pondered  Pa  over 
his  Martyrs,  "but  a  starched  bosom  always 


20  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

sort  o'  rasps  my  mind.  Likely  I'm  not  edu- 
cated up  to  'em  yet." 

"You'll  get  used  to  'em,  Pa,  gradual,"  nodded 
Ma  across  the  marble-topped  table. 

She  creaked  to  and  fro  in  the  red  plush 
rocker,  looking  down  at  the  ample  folds  of  the 
second-best  alpaca  with  innocent  elation.  Be- 
ing a  woman,  Ma  already  was  used  to  dressing 
up.  The  creak  was  suspended  abruptly.  "I 
been  thinking,  Peter,"  a  sudden  wistfulness  of 
appeal  lurked  in  Ma's  voice,  "it's  real  nice, 
isn't  it,  that  little  Joey'll  have  a  chanct  now 
to  be  proud  o'  his  pa'n'  ma?" 

"Yes,  Ma,  yes.    'Tis  nice." 

The  rocker  took  up  its  creaking  again,  with 
reminiscent  pauses  between  jolts.  Over  the 
dishpans  in  the  kitchen  a  shrill,  bony  soprano 
broke  startlingly  into  the  doxology  above  the 
rattling  of  cups  and  saucers. 

Pa  and  Ma  Potts  looked  out  across  the  snow- 
rimmed  landscape  beyond  the  parlor  window, 
a  sudden  parent-look  on  their  gentle  old  faces. 
It  almost  seemed  as  though  they  were  watching 
a  sturdy  little  figure  toiling  with  joyous  legs 
up  the  white  slope  of  the  pasture,  dragging  a 
sled  behind  him. 

The  names.  Pa  and  Ma,  had  really  belonged 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  21 

to  them  only  four  days ;  but  they  fitted  so  well 
that  they  had  stayed  behind  after  the  feeble 
being  who  had  thus  graced  them  had  wailed 
his  last  tiny  protest  against  the  discomforts 
of  life.  Some  people  are  born  Pa's  and  Ma's. 
The  pity  of  it  that  they  are  not  always  the  ones 
to  have  children ! 

Often  Ma  had  found  a  gingerbread  horse 
or  soldier  growing  under  her  hands  on  her 
molding  board  and  hidden  it  in  guilty  haste 
lest  Pa  should  come  in  and  discover  her  making 
it;  and  across  the  cobwebbiest  rafters  of  the 
shop  Pa  had  hidden  a  clumsy  little  sled 
fashioned  in  his  odd  moments,  fearful  lest  Ma 
should  see. 

"Har-r-rk  from  th'  To-o-om,"  sang  Gussie 
piercingly  in  the  kitchen,  "a  do-o-oleful 
so-o-ound." — Closely  following  the  words  came 
a  crash  of  crockery.  The  hymn  trailed  off  into 
apprehensive  silence. 

"Gussie,"  wailed  Ma,  "Gussie,  what've  you 
broke?" 

"Nothin',  Mis'  Potts."  Gussie's  tone  was 
reassuring.  "Nothing  to  mention  'cept  just  a 
teapot.  Don't  you  fret  yourself  none.  Mis' 
Potts." 

Heroically  Ma  sat  back  in  the  embrace  of 


22  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

the  red  plush  rocker,  gripping  the  arms,  her 
lips  set  firmly  in  a  straight  line  as  one  deter- 
mined to  enjoy  herself  no  matter  what  hap- 
pens. At  that  moment  Ma  too  would  have 
sympathized  with  the  martyrs.  "I  was  mar- 
ried with  that  teapot,"  she  sighed,  mildly  un- 
complaining, "but  it  ain't  her  fault  exactly. 
Likely  if  I'd  a  been  named  Gussie  I  should 
have  broke  it  myself,  long  ago !" 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Ma  tried  to  get 
accustomed  to  her  hands.  She  was  not  ac- 
quainted with  them  in  their  inactivity.  In 
forty  years  of  sweeping,  darning,  and  baking 
they  had  never  learned  the  trick  of  folding 
themselves ;  and  now  it  was  too  late — sixty  is 
too  late  to  begin  to  learn  idleness.  Hands  that 
lie  indolently  in  one's  lap  should  not  be 
knotted  and  brown,  with  little  calloused  spots 
in  the  palm  that  tell  of  hot  ovens  and  rough- 
ened finger-tips  that  stand  for  patches  in  socks 
and  trousers. 

"They're  not  the  right  kind,"  decided  Ma 
regretfully.  "Some  hands  was  made  white  jest 
on  purpose  to  look  nice  and  pretty  on  a 
planner,  an'  some  was  made  to  get  a  good  holt 
on  a  broom.  Mine's  the  broom-kind.  Land! 
Seem's  if  I  just  ache  to  red  up  things !    Gussie 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  23 

means  real  well,  but  Ragged  Hill  folks  are 
sort  o'  shiftless.  She  don't  sweep  under  or 
behind.  I'm  ashamed  to  look  my  own  pantry 
in  the  face  I" 

Outwardly,  however,  Ma  radiated  placid 
satisfaction  as  she  sat  in  the  stilted  primness 
of  the  little  parlor  and  leisurely  swayed  to 
and  fro  in  the  rocking  chair. 

"I'm  doin'  all  the  rockin'  I  never  had  a 
chance  to  do  before !"  she  told  Pa,  whimsically. 
"It  feels  real  prosperous — rockin'  does." 

In  the  new  Sunday  bonnet  with  the  pink 
roses  nodding  prosperously  on  one  side,  she 
went  to  call  on  the  minister's  wife  and  newest 
baby;  and  drove  beside  Pa  to  church,  behind 
old  Dolly,  plodding  middle-agedly  through  the 
drifted  roads  with  protesting  asthmatic 
wheezes.  Dolly  had  not  retired,  and  distinctly 
resented  it. 

Except  for  the  Sunday  jog  down  to  the  vil- 
lage Ma  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
tab  on  the  days  of  the  week,  all  strangely  alike 
to  her  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  front- 
parlor  rocker.  When  Monday  no  longer  means 
wash  tubs,  nor  Tuesday  ironing  boards — when 
Saturday  is  not  redolent  with  the  good  smell 
of  spices  and  browning  loaves — what  wonder 


24  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

that  one  gets  mixed  in  one's  calendar  of  living? 
In  her  secret  soul  Ma  worried  a  good  deal 
lest  some  day  she  and  Pa  might  drive  to  church 
on  Monday  by  awful  mistake,  but  she  did  not 
hint  her  fears  to  Pa. 

"I  wouldn't  have  him  suspicion  that  I  was 
hankering  to  roll  out  a  batch  of  pies  this 
mortal  minute,  not  for  worlds  I  wouldn't,"  she 
thought,  apologetically.  "I  don't  know  what's 
got  into  me,  beiu'  so  restless-like  lately.  I 
guess  women  folks  is  cur'ous  anyhow.  Give 
'em  a  gingham  apron  an'  a  kitchen  to  putter 
round  in  an'  they  can  keep  as  happy  an'  con- 
tented as  old  Tilly,  but  a  man  takes  a  sight  of 
comfort  in  just  bein'  Jike  other  folks." 

To  see  Ma  creaking  peacefully  to  and  fro, 
her  tired  old  hands  painstakingly  folded  in  her 
second-best-alpaca  lap,  one  would  never  have 
guessed  that  inwardly  her  busy  mind  was  tying 
a  familiar  blue-checked  apron  around  her  waist 
and  briskly  wielding  a  broom  in  the  Gussie- 
neglected  corners  of  the  house  "behind  and 
under." 

Pa  Potts,  watching  her  wistfully,  did  not 
guess  her  thoughts.  It  did  his  heart  good  to 
see  Ma  resting. 

"Women   folks  is   different,"   he   reflected 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  25 

wisely.  "No  woman  ever  gets  too  old  to  hanker 
after  style." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  admitted, 
even  to  himself,  that  he  and  Ma  were  growing- 
old.  His  hands  felt  queerly  stiff  and  useless, 
fretting  for  the  good  feel  of  his  plane,  the 
knotty  toughness  of  a  pine  board  under  his 
saw. 

After  three  weeks  of  aimless  wandering 
about  the  house,  Peter  Potts  struck.  It  was 
on  the  afternoon  when  he  drove  Ma  to  a  Ladies' 
Aid  meeting  in  the  village. 

At  the  door  of  the  parsonage  Ma  turned  to 
call  back:  "Pa — Pa  Potts — you  needn't  mind 
about  drivin'  down  after  me — I  see  the 
Willoughby  girls'  pung  hitched  to  the  back 
fence.    I'll  come  home  along  o'  them." 

"Jest's  you  say.  Ma."  Pa's  tone  was  care- 
fully noncommittal,  not  a  hint  of  his  suddenly 
conceived  plan  breathed  in  it;  but  his  heart 
thumped  with  excitement  as  he  turned  Dolly's 
willing  head  homeward  with  a  flurry  of  loose 
snow  under  the  runners  and  a  confusion  of 
sleigh  bells. 

He  could  hardly  wait  to  get  back.  Under 
his  impatient  reining  the  old  horse  broke  into 
a  faded  resemblance  of  a  trot,  frisking  her 


26  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

ancient  gray  tail  coltishly  with  wheezy  snorts 
of  excitement. 

"Ma  don't  jest  understand  how  'tis,  Dolly," 
confided  Pa  as  they  turned  into  the  dooryard 
under  the  drooping  arch  of  gray  elm  boughs. 
"You  can't  expect  a  woman  to  feel  same's  a 
man  does  about  sawin'  and  hammerin' — it's 
agin  nater.  I  reckon  we  hadn't  better  say  any- 
thing to  Ma  about  it,  Dolly." 

In  the  familiar  homey  litter  of  the  shop,  Pa 
drew  a  long  breath.  His  eyes,  peering  eagerly 
about  the  room,  sought  out  old  treasures  be- 
neath the  film  of  dust  streaking  everything — 
here  the  rusty  saw,  there  the  yellow  handle  of 
the  plane,  there  the  hammer  half  hidden  under 
a  snarl  of  shavings. 

Pa  laid  aside  the  hammer,  fondling  its  use- 
smoothed  handle  with  reluctant  fingers.  A 
hammer  does  not  keep  a  secret  well.  Fumbling 
about  among  the  chips  and  sawdust  on  the 
carpenter's  bench,  he  found  a  board,  unsawed, 
unplaned,  inviting.  The  handle  of  the  plane 
leaped  to  meet  the  eager  grasp  of  his  fingers. 
Under  the  blade  the  shavings  sprang  up, 
curled  over  and  twisted  into  warm  brown 
spirals,  redolent  of  clean  wood  odors. 

Pa's  lips  puckered  happily  into  whistling 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  27 

curves — then,  softly  a  low  sound  like  the  con- 
tented piping  of  a  teakettle  shrilled  across  the 
silence  of  the  shop ;  Pa  was  marching  through 
Georgia. 

Through  the  cracks  in  the  window  casings 
the  fine  snow  sifted  into  the  shop  in  light 
feathery  piles  upon  the  floor,  but  Pa  did  not 
feel  the  cold.  In  his  joyous  absorption  was  no 
crack  for  chill  to  penetrate.  The  stiff  seams 
of  his  Prince  Albert  hampered  the  sturdy  swing 
of  his  arms,  the  starched  collar  scraped  his 
neck  unheeded.  The  short  winter  afternoon 
had  faded  into  indefinite  twilight,  bringing  to 
his  absorbed  ears  the  twitter  of  sleigh  bells 
from  the  roadway,  before  Pa  looked  from  his 
sawing  to  remember  Ma  with  a  guilty  twinge 
of  conscience. 

Hastily  he  brushed  the  tell-tall  flakes  of  saw- 
dust from  his  sleeves  and  stole  stealthily, 
round-aboutly,  into  the  house  through  the 
woodshed.  He  was  waiting  there  for  Ma  when 
she  came  in. 

Over  the  supper  table  Pa  smiled  across  at 
Ma,  guilelessly  innocent.  "Did  a  lot  o'  folks 
turn  out  to  the  meetin'?"  he  inquired,  amiably. 
"I  met  old  Lem  Tibbitts  drivin'  Ann  an'  Lizzie 
down  from  the  crossroads  when  I  come  back." 


28  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Yes,  'twas  a  real  nice  meetin',"  agreed  Ma, 
absently.  "We  voted  to  send  a  missionary 
barrel  to  Africa  an'  to  paper  the  parsonage 
bathroom." 

She  paused,  testing  the  pie  on  her  plate  with 
critical  nibbles,  then  in  a  sort  of  resigned 
triumph  she  shook  her  head.  "Other  folks' 
cooking  don't  eat  same's  yours,"  she  sighed, 
plaintively.  "It's  the  nutmeg  this  time.  I 
don't  see  why  Gussie  can't  keep  nutmeg  in  her 
mind  long  enough  to  bake  a  pie." 

It  was  that  night  that  Ma  made  her  dis- 
covery. Night-times,  long  after  the  rest  of  the 
household  were  asleep.  Ma  lay  in  a  luxury  of 
worriment,  "supposing"  terrible  things  to  her- 
self, as :  suppose  Gussie's  forgotten  to  put  the 
milk  pans  in  the  cellar-way  or  to  set  the 
bread  to  rise  on  top  of  the  stove;  suppose,  O, 
suppose  she's  left  the  back  door  unhasped  and 
a  tramp  should  come  in  and  see  the  dust  in 
the  corner  and  behind  the  stove !  Ma's  house- 
wifely soul  shuddered  at  this  suppose ! 

In  the  dim  flicker  of  the  kerosene  night- 
lamp  she  slid  cautiously  out  of  bed  and  pat- 
tered across  the  shivery  floor  in  search  of  her 
shoes.  She  must  see  whether  the  back  door 
was  unhasped  or  not.     On  a  chair  by  the 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  29 

bureau  Pa's  clothes  lay  huddled,  man-fashion, 
in  a  crumpled  heap.  ]\Ik  picked  up  the  Prince 
Albert  with  anxious  care-wrinkles  sprinkled 
across  her  forehead.  She  had  forgotten  to 
"suppose"  that  Pa  hadn't  hung  that  up.  As 
she  smoothed  out  the  tails,  her  fingers  touched 
an  unexpected  something,  vaguely  familiar, 
dangling  with  the  handkerchief  from  the  back 
pocket.  Ma  carried  it  over  to  the  table  to  in- 
vestigate. Then  she  gave  a  low  exclamation, 
muffled  on  account  of  Pa. 

Trailing  from  Pa's  pocket  was  a  long  pine 
shaving,  freshly  white,  crisp,  curling.  For 
several  minutes  Ma  stood  there  looking  down 
at  it,  a  plump  little  figure  with  the  dingy 
yellow  light  of  the  night-light  flicking  shadows 
over  her  full  cotton  nightgown. 

"Land  a-livin'!"  she  murmured,  ''Land 
a-Uvin'r^ 

In  the  chill  gray  twilight  of  the  following 
day  Pa  plodded  through  the  drifts.  The  cold 
air,  flecked  with  white  wisps  of  snow,  sent 
little  unadmitted  twinges  crawling  through  his 
old  legs  and  arms. 

He  hurried  his  unharnessing,  with  mittened 
clumsiness  over  buckles  and  loops,  and  crossed 
the   drifty   yard    toward   the   inviting   little 


30  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

twinkles  of  light  in  the  kitchen  windows.  As 
he  stamped  the  clotted  snow  from  his  feet  and 
opened  the  door,  a  savory  whiff  of  warm  oven- 
odors  rushed  to  meet  his  surprised  nostrils :  the 
familiar  flavor  of  chicken  stew,  of  Ma-pies  and 
behind  them,  Ma,  unalpacaed,  smiling  up  at 
him  over  the  edge  of  the  blue-checked  gingham 
apron. 

His  brain  staggered,  seeking  the  support  of 
an  explanation.  Maybe  he'd  only  dreamed  that 
he  and  Ma  had  retired.  But  no — there  was 
Gussie — he  could  never  have  dreamed  Gussie ! 
Suddenly  he  whirled  on  the  radiant  little  Ma- 
person  before  him. 

"Something's  happened,"  he  laughed  in  quo- 
tation marks.  "You  needn't  tell  me^  Ma  Potts 
— I  guess  I  know  these  pies  after  bein'  married 
to  'em  for  goin'  on  forty  year !" 

"Gussie's  gone."  Subdued  elation  under- 
toned  Ma's  voice.  "Her  ma's  been  ailin'  for 
awhile  back  an'  to-day  I  told  Gussie  I  thought 
she  ought  to  be  to  Ragged  Hill  takin'  care  of 
her.  'She  needs  you  worse'n  we  do,'  I  told  her. 
So  I  got  Lem  Tibbitts  to  take  her  over  long  of 
him,  when  I  see  him  drivin'  by.  I  guess  we  can 
make  out  somehow  without  her,  Pa,  me  and 
you." 


BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS  31 

Pa  paused,  her  tone  taking  on  kindly  retro- 
spection. "She  meant  real  well,  Gussie  did," 
she  said,  charitably.  Already  she  had  forgot- 
ten the  dust  "behind  and  under."  In  a  sudden 
important  little  flurry  of  haste  she  scurried 
kitchenward,  her  words  trailing  back  as  she 
went ! 

"Draw  right  up  to  the  table.  Pa,"  she  called. 
"Everything's  ready  except  a  pan  o'  biscuit 
and  they^re  ready  too!  O,  Pa,  before  you  sit 
down  you  go  into  the  spare  room  and  get  a 
jar  of  my  damsons — the  premium  kind." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  ceremonial  of  the  plums 
which  gave  the  homely  little  supper  table  the 
air  of  festivity,  perhaps  it  was  the  gentle  satis- 
faction on  the  faces  of  Ma  and  Pa. 

"Deacon  Tupper  was  by  this  afternoon," 
said  Ma,  casually  over  her  cup  of  tea.  "He 
was  speakin'  about  shingling  the  loft  to  the 
meetin'  house,  where  the  weather  leaks  onto 
the  choir's  bunnits,  wet  spells.  I  s'pose  since 
his  Melia's  joined  the  choir  he  feels  a  sort  o' 
personal  interest  in  the  bunnits.  The  Deacon 
was  wondering  whether  you  couldn't  do  the 
job  for  'em,  as  an  accommodation,"  Ma  paused, 
but  continued,  "I  told  him  I  didn't  know's 
you'd  feel  to  or  not — " 


32  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Why,  yes."  Pa  considered  the  matter 
thoughtfully.  "I'd  just  as  soon  do  it  as  not, 
Ma — if  they  can't  find  anybody  else." 

Over  her  cutting  of  the  pie  Ma  Potts  nodded 
across  the  table  to  Pa,  the  parent-look  creeping 
once  more  across  her  old  face,  gentling  her  old 
voice. 

"I  been  thinking,  Pa,"  she  said,  shyly,  "that 
little  Joey  wasn't  accustomed  to  seein'  us  sit- 
tin'  around,  dressed  up  an'  all.  Likely  he 
wouldn't  recognize  us  that  way."  She  paused 
and  laughed  a  little,  softly.  "After  all,  I  guess 
you'n'  me  are  the  sort  of  folks  that  blue 
checked  gingham  shirts  and  aprons  are  be- 
comin'  to,  Pa !" 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  THE 
SAVAGES 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  THE  SAVAGES 

MISS  PATIENCE  PINGREE  laid  down 
her  pen  and  sat  bolt  upright  in  the 
slender  desk  chair,  every  patrician  line  of  her 
tense  with  listening.  Along  the  walls  in  their 
prim  walnut  frames  the  dead-and-gone  genera- 
tions of  Pingrees  seemed  to  listen  too;  their 
faded  crayoned  noses  a-sniff  with  disapproval. 
So  might  have  waited  the  Pingree  colonists  in 
their  log  fortress  in  Plymouth  Town  when  the 
little  brass  cannon  sounded  the  Indian  alarm. 
Ancestrally,  Miss  Patience  had  heard  much 
the  same  sound  before.  Outside,  beyond  the 
box  hedge,  the  shrill  whoop  was  taken  up  joy- 
ously by  another  voice — two  others,  three! 
Miss  Patience  shuddered. 

"The  Savages  again !"  she  murmured.  "The 
cotton  don't  keep  them  out  a  mite.  Some- 
times lately  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  inherited 
the  Pingree  ears !" 

Always  had  it  been  one  of  Miss  Patience's 
innocent  little  boasts — her  good  Pingree  hear- 
ing that  never  missed  a  word  of  the  sermon  in 

35 


36  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

spite  of  the  back-of-the-church  family  pew. 
Grandfather  Jotham  had  sat  there  at  eighty- 
five  and  listened.  Miss  Patience  had  a  sudden 
disquieting  vision  of  herself  at  eighty-five  sit- 
ting as  now  with  cotton  in  her  ears  trying  not 
to  hear  the  Savages ! 

"Tilly-Ann  says  there  are  only  five,"  she 
sighed,  gently,  "but  Tilly-Ann  must  have 
counted  wrong.  Five  children  could  never 
make  so  much  noise." 

On  an  impulse  she  got  up  and  went  over 
to  the  window,  letting  up  the  shade.  In  the 
yard  of  the  little  house  across  the  hawthorn 
hedge  a  tangle  of  thin,  black-stockinged  legs 
and  tousled  towheads  rolled  ecstatically  on  the 
snowy  ground.  Miss  Patience  grew  dizzy  try- 
ing to  count  them — two  legs  apiece,  five  chil- 
dren— surely  there  were  more  than  ten  stock- 
ings! The  heap  careened  into  a  snow  bank 
and  broke  into  units  with  shrieks  of  glee. 

"Whee !  Whee !  Betcher  you  can't  make  a 
snowman  quick  as  me!" 

"Betcher  I  can  so,  Morrie  Abbott !" 

"Dare  you  to  try!  Bobs,  you  run  get  the 
coal  for  the  eyes — tell  mother  we'll  bring  it 
back!" 

"Whee!    Whee!" 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  SAVAGES     37 

Miss  Patience  counted  aloud,  "There's  the 
Red-Headed  Savage,  and  the  Girl-One,  and  the 
Savage  Twins,"  she  nodded,  "and  Bobs — Tilly- 
Ann  was  right.  There  are  only  five,  and  they 
are  all  very  young.  It  will  take  a  good  while 
for  them  to  grow  up — " 

She  turned  back  into  the  room,  facing  the 
accusing  line  of  ancestors  sadly. 

"If  I  could  have,  I'd  have  bought  the  next 
door  house,"  she  told  them,  apologetically,  "but 
— there  wasn't  enough  money.  We'll  just  have 
to  make  up  our  minds  to  bear  it.  But  you 
don't  have  to  listen,  poor  things." 

She  went  about  the  room,  turning  the  walnut 
frames  face  to  the  wall,  with  whimsical  serious- 
ness. Midway  of  her  task  the  front  doorbell 
rang.  A  front  door  call  at  this  time  in  the 
morning  at  Shady  Valley  spoke  a  matter  of 
importance.  In  a  little  panic  of  haste  Miss 
Patience  took  the  cotton  out  of  her  ears  and 
hurried  down  the  hall.  It  was  one  of  her  con- 
cessions to  the  Pingree  ancestors  not  to  answer 
the  bell  herself. 

"The  white  apron,  Tilly-Ann,"  she  prompted 
anxiously,  "and  the  best  room,  and  you'll  call 
Miss  Patience  immediately.  And,  Tilly-Ann, 
don't  shake  hands." 


38  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Tilly-Ann's  heavy  footsteps  jarred  to  the 
door,  and  presently  back  again. 

"It's  the  minister,"  she  reported.  "I  steered 
him  t'  the  wing  cheer  where  the  worn  place  in 
the  carpet  don't  show,  'n'  histed  up  the  shades. 
Tain't  time  for  his  reg'lar  call  for  a  month  yet, 
so  I  guess  he's  got  another  heathen  on  his  mind 
or  mebbe  a  church  social." 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Pingree."  The  min- 
ister wore  his  official  manner.  "Fine  Thanks- 
giving weather  we're  having.  I  told  my  wife 
this  morning  'Thanksgiving  isn't  Thanksgiv- 
ing unless  its  white.'  I  said,  'It  might  as  well 
be  Fourth  of  July.'  " 

He  laughed  pleasantly  at  his  own  humor  and 
Miss  Patience  chimed  in. 

"I  think  so  too,"  she  nodded.  "It's  more  like 
the  first  Thanksgiving  so." 

"Ah,  the  first  Thanksgiving."  Mr.  Griscom 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  "That  is  what  my 
errand  is  about,  so  to  speak.  The  ladies  of  the 
church  are  getting  up  a  Thanksgiving  sociable, 
and  they  have  delegated  me  to  ask  you  whether 
you  will  favor  us  with  a  paper  on  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  bringing  in  the  elder  Bradford  and 
the  Plymouth  colony.  I  believe  your  own 
family  was  represented  on  that  occasion?" 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  SAVAGES     39 

"Waitstill  Pingree  and  Patience,  his  wife," 
Miss  Patience  quoted.  A  faint  flush  of  pride 
tinged  her  faded  cheeks.  Through  the  meager, 
dull-toned  warp  of  her  life  ran  but  one  bright 
thread.  If  she  had  been  born  in  China,  Miss 
Patience  would  have  worshiped  at  the  tomb  of 
her  ancestors. 

"Yes,  we  Pingrees  came  over  on  the  May- 
flower," she  went  on,  consciously.  "I've  got  a 
pewter  spoon  that  came  over  with  us,  an'  a 
horn  book  that  belonged  to  Waitstill's  little 
girl.  I  could  show  them  at  the  sociable  if  you 
think  they'd  be  of  an  interest." 

Ten  minutes  later  Tilly-Ann  looked  up  from 
her  raisin-stoning  at  a  gently  radiant  Miss 
Patience  in  the  doorway. 

"Well,  was  it  a  heathen?"  she  asked,  crisply, 
"or  did  he  want  I  should  bake  one  o'  my  gold- 
'n'-silver  cakes  for  the  sociable?" 

"Not  this  time,  Tilly- Ann,"  said  her  mistress. 
"He  come  to  ask  me  to  write  out  a  piece  about 
the  first  Thanksgiving  dinner.  You'd  better 
dish  up  lunch  early  to-day  so's  I  can  get  a  start 
on  it  this  afternoon.  It's  only  two  days  to 
Thanksgiving." 

All  the  afternoon  and  the  next  day  Miss 
Patience  sat  over  the  mahogany  secretary,  his- 


40  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

tory  books  piled  about  her,  wielding  an  un- 
ready pen.  Warm  savory  whiffs  of  oven  odors 
crept  in  from  Tilly- Ann's  domain,  the  gingery 
hint  of  pumpkin  pies,  the  fruity  flavor  of  mince 
and  apple.  Miss  Patience  savored  the  whiffs 
critically.  The  Pingree  Thanksgiving  dinner 
was  an  institution,  a  solemn  tradition.  It  was 
a  matter  of  pride  with  her  that  each  one  of 
them  should  be  royally  complete,  perfect  from 
great,  brown,  fifteen-pound  turkey  down 
through  the  vegetables  and  cranberry  jelly,  the 
pies  and  plum  pudding  to  the  nuts  and  raisins. 
Every  year  in  lonely  dignity  Miss  Patience  sat 
down  to  a  dinner  worthy  of  her  ancestors. 

"The  Pingrees  have  always  had  a  family 
dinner  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  as  long  as  I'm 
a  family  they  always  shall,"  she  said,  firmly, 
whenever  some  kindly  neighbor  asked  her  to 
share  their  turkey.  "I  wouldn't  feel  as  though 
I  was  doing  right  by  my  forebears  not  to  carve 
my  own  turkey  on  Thanksgiving  Day." 

But  this  year  across  the  pleasant  bustle  of 
preparation  shrilled  the  discord  of  the  next- 
door  children.  Miss  Patience  found  it  hard  to 
count  her  blessings. 

"Though  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  thankful 
there  aren't  six  instead  of  five,"  she  sighed. 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  SAVAGES     41 

"Ma  used  to  say  when  I  was  a  little  tyke  an' 
didn't  like  something,  'Remember  your  name, 
Patience,  remember  your  name,'  but  I  don't 
believe  the  recording  angel  would  remember 
his  name  with  that  noise  going  on  around 
him !" 

The  whoops  without  mixed  themselves  up 
among  the  sentences  of  Miss  Patience's  piece. 
She  found  it  impossible  to  unravel  them. 

"I'm  goin'  to  be  cappen!  I'm  a  boy!  Who 
ever  heard  o'  a  girl  bein'  cappen !" 

"I'm  the  oldest,  so  there,  Morrie  Abbott !  An' 
I  guess  a  girl  could  be  a  cappen  if  she  tried! 
But  I'd  jus'  as  soon's  be  a  Red  Cross." 

"What'll  we  be?  What'll  we  be?"  The  Twin 
Savages  clamored.  Their  voices  pranced  up 
and  down. 

"You're  the  cavalry  an'  you're  the  artil'ry, 
and  Bobs  is  the  infantry  'cause  he's  only  a 
baby !  Now !  Shoulder  arms  (put  your  shovel 
over  your  shoulder,  Clem )  — Mark  time !  For- 
ward, march !" 

Miss  Patience  rose  and  went  into  the 
kitchen. 

"Tilly-Ann,"  she  said,  long-sufferingly,  "I 
want  you  should  go  out  and  suppress  those 
children!     I  can't  stand  their  noise  another 


42  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

minute,  not  another !  There's  a  special  set  of 
nerves  they  get  onto.  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
hear  yourself  cook  in  this  hubbub — I  sh'd 
put  sage  in  the  puddin'  an'  raisins  in  the  stuff- 
ing if  I  were  you !" 

She  went  back  to  the  secretary  and  the  Puri- 
tans set  sail  for  America  again.  Ensued  a 
blessed  silence  without.  Evidently,  Tilly- Ann 
was  doing  her  work  of  suppression  faithfully. 
For  an  hour  the  pen  hovered  spasmodically 
over  the  paper,  then,  unexpectedly.  Miss 
Patience  laid  it  down. 

"My  land !"  she  exclaimed,  fretfully,  "I  never 
heard  such  a  stillness !  It  don't  sound  natural. 
Where  is  everybody? — Tilly- Ann!  Tilly- Ann! 
Tilly- Ann !" 

She  went  down  the  hall  to  the  kitchen  and 
pushed  open  the  door — then  shrank  back  into 
the  shadows. 

"Land  a-livin'!"  she  murmured.  "Land 
a-livin' !" 

For  there  in  a  row  on  the  railing  of  the  back 
porch  sat  the  Savages.  Their  long  thin  legs 
dangled  uncomfortably  against  the  palings, 
only  one  pair,  the  Girl  Savage's,  trailing  on 
the  floor.  Ought  little  children's  legs  to  be  so 
thin  ?    Miss  Patience  wondered  uncomfortably. 


•f4-"*"<   *•  ^\<.-l>T AH4ii,^    ./• 


With  a  flourish  Tilly-Ann  lifted  the  pot  lid. 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  SAVAGES     45 

Above  their  shabby,  out-at-elbows  coats  their 
five  small  faces  shone  happily  through  a  film 
of  cookie  crumbs — O  Tilly-Ann  !     Tilly- Ann  I 

That  soft-hearted  person  herself  stood  at  the 
stove,  long  iron  spoon  held  aloft  in  the  manner 
of  a  bandmaster's  baton.  Miss  Patience  eyed 
her  in  amazement. 

"Ready?"  said  Tilly-Ann,  hand  on  the  shin- 
ing lid  of  one  of  her  pots.  The  Red-Headed 
Savage  marshaled  his  crew. 

"Shut  your  eyes,  everybody,"  he  directed 
clearly.  "Marjie  has  the  first  smell  'cause  she's 
a  lady,  an'  Bobs  the  next  one  'cause  he's  little, 
then  the  Twins,  then  me.  Now!  One,  two, 
three!    Smell!" 

With  a  flourish  Tilly- Ann  lifted  the  pot  lid. 
A  warm  savory  steam  issued  forth  into  the 
kitchen. 

"M-m-mm-m !"  sniffed  the  Girl  Savage  with 
ecstatic  little  nose.  "Quick,  the  rest  of  you — 
smell !" 

The  Savages  drew  in  long  noisy  whiffs,  lean 
little  chests  rising  and  falling  mightily. 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Tilly- Ann.  "Some 
o'  you  young  ones  had  ought  to  know  that — it's 
an  easy  one !" 

"Onions!"  auessed  Morrie. 


46  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Turnips !"  the  Hungriest  Twin. 

"Land,  no!"  Tilly-Ann  was  plainly  scan- 
dalized. "Didn't  none  of  you  never  smell 
steamed  squash  before?  Well,  well,  shet  your 
eyes !    The  next  course  is  ready." 

This  time  there  was  no  mistake.  In  one 
voice  the  Savages  cried  it  aloud. 

"Turkey !" 

"And  stuflQn' !"  added  the  Girl  Savage,  wist- 
fully. "My !  My !  ain't  that  a  nice  smell !  Sniff 
hard,  Bobs-dearie,  'cause  she's  goin'  t'  shut  the 
oven  door  pretty  soon." 

"Want  some  more  tui^key!"  trembled  Bobs 
on  the  verge  of  tears  as  Tilly-Ann  shut  the 
smell  back  into  the  oven.  "Want  t'  smell 
turkey  adain !" 

"Hush!  Bobs,  Hush!"  reproved  the  Girl 
Savage,  hurriedly.  "They's  some  more  things 
comin'.    Do  you  want  to  miss  the  pun'kin  pie?" 

Course  by  course  the  Savages  sniffed  their 
savory  way  through  Miss  Patience's  Thanks- 
giving dinner,  small  snub  noses  wrinkled  and 
anxious,  small  lean  faces  wistful  with  de- 
light. The  strange  little  dinner  ended  with 
the  smell  of  hot  mince  pie. 

The  Red-Headed  Savage  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Gee!    But  that  was  a  bully  dinner!"  he 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  SAVAGES     4T 

cried,  valiantly.  "We've — we've  'joyed  it  very 
much,  thank  you." 

"I  don't  believe  I  ever  smelled  a  nicer 
Thanksgivin' !"  added  the  Girl  One,  faintly. 
"We're  very  'bliged  I" 

"Ve-wy !"  chorused  the  Twins,  rubbing  their 
small  stomachs. 

One  Savage  alone  did  not  return  thanks  for 
what  he  had  just  enjoyed.  It  was  Bobs.  He 
resisted  the  efforts  of  his  sister  to  lift  him  down 
from  his  perch  with  angry  kicks  of  his  in- 
finitesimal legs. 

"No!  No!  No!"  wailed  Bobs.  "Ise  hun- 
gwy !  Won't  do  home — won't  be  dood  boy !  Ise 
hungwy !" 

"Bobs  Abbott,  you'd  oughter  be  'shamed — 
most  three  years  old !"  reproved  the  Girl  Sav- 
age. Red  humiliation  touched  her  colorless 
little  face.  "If  you've  got  t'  roar,  roar  soft  for 
pity's  sake,  ^he  don't  like  noise!  Come  on 
home  now  with  sister  an'  she'll  give  you  a  nice 
slice  o'  bread  an'  butter." 

"Want  Franksgivin'  dinner!"  wept  Bobs 
frantically.  "Ain't  no  Franksgivin'  dinner  at 
home !" 

"Don't  you  let  Mama-Dear  hear  you,"  the 
Girl   Savage's  voice  was  taut  with  anxiety. 


48  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"  'S  if  she  could  help  this  being  a  bad  time  o' 
year  for  washings —  you'd  ought  to  be  thankful 
for  bread  an'  butter !  Lots  o'  folks  don't  have 
the  butter  part.  There,  there,  dearie!  We'll 
pretend  a  Thanksgiving  dinner — with  turkey 
an'  squash — " 

"An'  cramberry  sauce  an'  stuffin?"  anxiously 
from  the  Hungriest  Twin. 

"Yes,  an'  mince  pie  an'  nuts  an'  raisings!" 
cried  the  Girl  Savage,  brightly.  "Come  on 
now,  all  o'  you.  An'  don't  you  dast  to  let 
Mama-Dear  hear  you  a-cryin' !" 

Back  in  the  library  Miss  Patience  faced  her 
ancestors  with  w^et  eyes. 

"Well?"  she  questioned  them,  "Well?"  The 
grim  crayoned  faces  seemed  strangely  gentled 
seen  through  a  film  of  shamed  tears. 

"I'd  ought  to  have  been  named  Impatience !" 
quavered  Miss  Patience.  "A  Pilgrim  Father'd 
be  ashamed  to  own  me,  and  a  Pilgrim  Mother 
— Land  a-living!  What  would  a  Pilgrim 
Mother  say?" 

She  sank  down  at  the  secretary  and  stared 
absently  at  the  article  she  had  been  writing. 
Suddenly  the  last  sentence  of  it  sprang  to  her 
eyes  clearly  as  though  a  voice  had  spoken. 

"And  so  on  the  First  Thanksgiving  Day  the 


MISS  PATIENCE  AND  SAVAGES     49 

Pilgrims  invited  the  Savages  to  sit  down  to 
dinner  with  them." 

Miss  Patience  gave  a  queer  little  laugh  that 
was  tangled  up  with  a  sob.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  draw  the 
bygone  pictured  Pingrees  down  to  her  side. 

"Us  Pingrees!"  she  cried.  "Us  Pingrees — 
and  those  poor  little  thin-legged  Savages,  and 
their  mother  over  next  door.  Praise  be !  The 
turkey '11  stretch !  I'll  run  this  minute  and  tell 
Tilly- Ann  to  bake  up  another  pie !" 


HER  PINK  HOUR 


HER  PINK  HOUR 

"  A^'  ^^  ^"^®  ^^'  flounce  me  twict  around 
a\.  the  bottom,  Abby."  Mrs.  Bemis  paused 
at  the  gate,  her  large  face  taking  on  lines  of 
pleased  importance.  "Sence  Albion's  been 
'lected  selectman,  I  feel  it's  no  more'n  right  'n' 
fittin'  that  I  sh'd  have  two  flounces  on  my 
wrappers." 

The  little  dressmaker  in  the  doorway 
watched  the  stout  form  of  her  visitor  anxiously 
as  it  billowed  and  swayed  in  the  tiny  strip  of 
path,  threatening  the  pansy  bed  on  one  hand, 
the  sweetpea  vines  on  the  other.  "Don't  you 
worry  none,  Mis'  Bemis,"  she  called,  reassur- 
ingly, "I'll  flounce  you.  Yes,  you  c'n  drop  in 
of  a  Tuesday  week  and  try  'em  on — Yes,  yes. 
Good  evenin'." 

With  a  swan  song  of  cautions  and  admoni- 
tions Mrs.  Bemis  heaved  slowly  away.  Abigail 
Bliss  drew  a  relieved  breath  that  would  have 
been  a  sigh  if  she  had  been  the  sighing  kind. 
"Wrappers!"  she  said  aloud  in  gentle  resent- 
ment, "an'  brown  caliker  ones  at  that.  I  was 
63 


54  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

sort  o'  lottin'  on  the  next  ones  bein'  pink,  may- 
be, or  red — land  sakes !" — she  broke  into  a  de- 
lighted giggle  at  the  idea — "I  hadn't  ought  to 
be  uncharitable  enough  to  wish  Mis'  Bemis  in 
a  red  caliker  wrapper,  law  no !  But  sometimes 
I  hanker  to  make  somethin'  pretty  for  some- 
body." 

"Evenin',  Abby." 

Abigail  Bliss  peered  nearsightedly  through 
the  dusk.  "Why,  if  it  ain't  Mis'  Timmins,"  she 
cried,  heartily.  "Come  in  an'  wait  a  while,  do. 
I  ain't  set  eyes  on  you  for  a  month  o'  Sundays," 

Mrs.  Timmins  rested  her  basket  on  the  fence, 
her  pleasant  face  creasing  in  humorous  lines. 
"It's  easy  to  guess  you  ain't  married,  Abby 
Bliss,"  she  laughed,  comfortably.  "I  just  see 
the  stage  drive  in  an'  my  men  folks  can't  abide 
supper  bein'  dished  up  late — no,  I  can't  stop  in. 
I  just  thought  I'd  leave  a  message  for  Horace 
Walker  as  I  was  passin'  by — I  s'pose  likely 
he'll  be  droppin'  in  this  evening?" 

"Likely  he  will."  Abby's  voice  was  mildly 
conscious,  but  only  mildly  so.  Whatever 
romance  there  might  once  have  been  in  Horace 
Walker's  calls  had  almost  disappeared  after 
fifteen  years  of  staid,  neighborly  dropping  in 
to  talk  of  town  meeting  and  the  potato  pros- 


HER  PINK  HOUR  55 

pects.  They  had  become  a  habit,  an  accepted 
matter-of-fact  like  mail-time  and  the  inevita- 
bility of  Thanksgiving  and  Conference.  Fif- 
teen years  erases  so  many  things! 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  tell  him  that  Abner 
Timmins  wants  he  shonld  haul  a  load  o' 
kindlin'  wood  from  the  wood-lot  on  a  Monday 
— thank  yon,  xlbby — yes,  I'm  going  to  try  to 
get  around  next  week  to  see  you  about  some 
gingham  aprons  for  the  next  missionary 
barrel." 

"Pink  gingham  aprons?"  demanded  Abby, 
hopefully.  Mrs.  Timmins'  surprise  almost  up- 
set the  market  basket  from  the  top  of  the  fence. 

"Land  no,  pink  gingham  for  the  heathen, 
Abby  Bliss?"  She  was  plainly  scandalized. 
"  'Twouldn't  be  proper  nor  suitable.  The 
Ladies'  Aid  has  bought  a  whole  bolt  of  brown 
checked — we  think  it'll  make  up  real  nice  and 
tasty.  Well,  so  long,  Abby.  Don't  forget  to 
tell  Horace  about  the  wood." 

Abby  Bliss  looked  after  the  hurrying  market 
basket  in  gentle  defiance.  "If  I  were  a  heathen 
an'  wore  aprons,  I  sh'd  want  'em  pink,"  she 
murmured,  stubbornly.  "I  believe  pink  ging- 
ham is  more  religious  than  brown-checked  any- 
way.    I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I'd  'a'  been  a 


56  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

better  woman  this  livin'  minute  if  I'd  ever  had 
a  pink  satin  dress  with  a  train  to  it  an'  a  lace 
collar."  She  gazed  dreamily  down  the  village 
street.  A  small,  square  boy  was  driving  a 
straggling  herd  of  cows  across  the  common 
with  important  shouts  of  authority.  By  the 
Soldiers'  Monument  a  shrill  tinkle  of  child 
voices  announced  a  game  of  follow-my-leader. 
Behind  the  chilly  white  square  of  the  Meth- 
odist steeple  a  rose  and  yellow  sunset  was 
lingering,  sprinkled  across  by  drooping  ara- 
besques of  elm  twigs. 

"It's  a  sightly  evening,"  murmured  the  little 
dressmaker,  happily.  She  often  held  mild  little 
conversations  with  herself  for  lack  of  another 
audience.  "I  always  think  anything  nice 
might  happen  when  it  gets  all  peace-colored' 
and  happy,  like  it  is  to-night.  To-morrow  I'll 
get  up  good  and  airly  and  get  Mis'  Silas  Bean's 
second  husband's  shirts  off  my  mind;  then 
I'll  start  in  on  them  wrappers.  But  I  shan't 
touch  'em  till  then.  I  don't  feel  like  a  wrapper 
to-night.  Them  posies  down  there  smell  just 
like — like" — her  vocabulary  faltered — "just 
like  that  sunset  looks!  Land!  Abby  Bliss, 
how  you  do  talk !" 

She  smiled  indulgently.  Her  own  queer  little 


HEK  PINK  HOUR  57 

fancies  amused  her  and  often  startled  her 
prosaic  inheritance  of  New  England  common 
sense.  It  was  the  fancy  part  of  Abigail  Bliss 
that  planted  colorful  pansies  and  a  rainbow 
hedge  of  sweet  peas  where  her  neighbors  pre- 
ferred well-weeded  asparagus  beds  or  the 
sprawling  usefulness  of  rhubarb.  But  it  was 
her  traditional  birthright  of  prose  that  bade 
her  dress  her  gentle  spinsterhood  in  prim  dark 
prints  and  the  dreary  middle-aged  common- 
places of  chocolate-hued  calicoes,  when  a  young 
heart  in  her  cried  out  rebelliously  for  colors, 
daintiness,  and  girlish  pretties.  She  was  like 
one  who  has  passed  the  pleasant  stopping- 
place  of  youth  in  the  dark  and  now  sought  it 
wistfully  when  it  lay  behind. 

With  a  caressing  movement  she  bent  over 
the  twisted  unsightliness  of  the  ancient  rose- 
bush beside  the  path.  It  was  weather-beaten 
and  knotted,  like  a  rheumatic  old  woman  whom 
life  has  buffeted,  but  on  its  topmost  branch 
it  bore  one  small  frail  bud,  almost  open. 

"Ain't  it  wonderful?"  she  crooned,  brushing 
it  with  gentle  fingers.  "That  rosybush's  most 
as  old  as  I  be,  and  it  ain't  never  had  a  posy 
on  it  before.  I  hope  it'll  be  a  pink  one — seem's 
like  it  deserves  a  pink  one — waitin'  so  long !" 


58  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

The  cracked  bell  in  the  Methodist  steeple 
began  to  clamor  a  summons  to  Thursday  night 
prayer  meeting  in  a  wavering  insistent  series 
of  jerks.  In  answer  the  soberly  shawled  forms 
of  old  Miss  Parker  and  her  mother  came  out 
of  their  yard  and  turned  primly  churchward 
across  the  common.  The  minister's  wife  with 
a  swarm  of  ministerial  children  came  out  on 
the  parsonage  piazza  to  wave  goodby  to  the 
minister.  In  guilty  haste  Abigail  Bliss  shrank 
back  into  the  concealing  shadows  of  the  front 
hall  and  shut  the  door  noiselessly  upon  the 
godly  procession  of  churchgoers. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  meetin'  I"  she  drew  a  quaver- 
ing breath  of  excitement.  "There  ain't  any 
chance  of  anyone's  droppin'  in  duriu'  service 
and  I'm  goin'  to  get  out  The  Dress  and  try  it 
on !"  The  capital  letter  was  apparent  in  her 
voice.  Twin  excitement  spots  flared  in  her 
cheeks — what  would  folk  think  if  folk  knew? 

"Brother  Peel'd  read  the  'Vanity  of  vani- 
ties' chapter  and  say  'twas  wicked,  but  it 
ain't!"  she  declared,  stubbornly,  ''an'  I  don't 
care  if  'UsT  She  was  amazed  at  the  daring 
of  her  own  words,  but  she  came  of  the  reckless 
stock  that  had  flung  the  tea  into  the  patriotic 
waters  of  Boston  Harbor  and  she  did  not  hesi- 


HER  PINK  HOUR  59 

tate.  One  of  the  solemn  family  portraits  hang- 
ing in  that  very  hall  had  signed  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence. 

"Women  folks  have  got  a  right  to  a  little 
vanity  or  the  Lord  wouldn't  'a'  made  'em  like 
they  are,"  she  reasoned.  "An'  it  don't  do  any- 
body a  mite  o'  harm — not  a  mite !" 

She  pulled  down  the  gTeen  paper  shades  in 
her  prim  little  parlor.  The  air  of  the  room 
was  clammy  and  unsunned,  but  the  thought  of 
using  the  warm  everydayness  of  her  sitting- 
room  for  trying  on  The  Dress  was  not  accord- 
ing to  Abigail  Bliss's  ideas  of  fitness.  She 
lighted  the  oil  lamp  with  its  green  and  purple 
glass  on  the  center  table.  Beside  the  plush 
album  lay  a  pile  of  nondescript  calico.  It  was 
like  a  grim  slap  on  her  eager  imagination.  She 
bundled  it  out  of  sight  with  ungentle  hands. 
To-morrow  she  would  begin  on  wrappers,  but 
to-night — 

With  anxious  care  she  spread  an  armful  of 
newspapers  over  the  carpet.  Then  she  un- 
locked the  rusty  hasp  of  the  top  drawer  of  the 
secretary  and  drew  out  a  folded  sheet.  In  some 
things  Abigail  Bliss,  spinster,  had  never  quite 
grown  up.  Now,  like  a  child  that  dallies  with 
a  pleasure  to  make  it  spend  longer,  she  stood 


60  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

looking  down  at  the  white  bundle,  hesitating 
to  open  it,  the  color  coming  in  jerks  to  her 
white  cheeks.  Then  with  lingering  delight 
she  unpinned  the  corners  of  the  sheet  and  drew 
them  apart,  revealing  a  fluffy  cloud  of  sheer 
white  and  a  frostwork  of  embroidered  sprays, 
hand-wrought  with  exquisite  delicacy.  In  the 
common,  stuffy  room  with  its  ancestral  plush 
furniture,  the  dress  shone  like  a  bit  of  Paris 
and  far-away,  luxurious  places. 

Little  Abby  Bliss,  with  her  tight  primness  of 
hair  and  her  poor  figured  percale  gown,  was  an 
alien  before  this  beauty,  but  Abby  Bliss  did 
not  know  that.  In  her  glowing  imagination 
she  saw  herself  attired  in  the  dress,  young, 
graceful,  pretty,  like  one  of  the  lissome  crea- 
tures of  the  fashion  books,  with  waves  of  hair, 
puffs,  curls,  dimples.  If  she  had  been  a  poet, 
even  a  spinster  poet  in  the  "mute  inglorious" 
concealment  of  a  tiny  country  village,  Abigail 
Bliss  would  have  written  one  song  with  the 
pulse  of  youth  and  the  ache  of  beauty  in  it — 
but  she  was  a  dressmaker,  so  she  had  sewn 
her  fancy  into  the  fairy  folds  of  this  dress.  It 
was  her  poem — her  one  flight  of  imagination. 
It  was  a  dress  of  Youth — its  dear,  foolish 
raptures,  its  pretty  frivolities. 


HER  PINK  HOUR  61 

It  stood  to  her  for  that  night,  years  ago, 
when  Horace  Walker  had  taken  her  in  his  new 
buggy  to  ride  through  the  summer  fields.  She 
had  stitched  into  it  a  memory  of  a  walk  home 
from  a  church  sociable,  when  Horace  and  she 
had  lagged  behind  the  rest  and  watched  a 
copper  moon  loom  hot  and  huge  behind  the 
ragged  haystacks. 

Once  before  she  had  had  a  shy  unspoken 
plan  for  such  a  dress,  but  that  had  been 
before  Horace's  mother  had  broken  her  hip, 
and  his  brother  had  left  the  sad  legacy  of 
his  widow  and  babies  to  Horace's  care  on 
his  little  run-down  farm.  Since  then  there 
had  been  brown  and  gray  wrappers,  missionary 
aprons,  coarse  blue  shirts  and  overalls,  and 
stout  little  dresses  for  small  folk  to  romp  in. 
But  she  had  never  made  anything  soft,  white, 
frilly — no  wonderful  fine  baby  clothes,  no 
party  gowns,  no  wedding  dress  for  a  pretty 
country  bride.  So  at  odd  moments  stolen  from 
her  stripes  and  checks,  she  had  worked  on  this 
dress,  putting  into  it  the  humble  best  of  her 
art  as  she  understood  it,  prolonging  the  pleas- 
ure of  its  wee  perfect  stitches  to  make  it  last. 
And  now  it  was  done.  Her  New  England  in- 
heritance jeered  at  her  scornfully. 


62  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Land,  Abby  Bliss,"  it  laughed  with  unkind 
directness,  "how'll  you  look  all  tricked  out  in 
them  furbelows  at  your  time  o'  life — I  guess 
you've  forgotten  how  old  you  be,  ain't  you?" 

"I'm  thirty-five!"  cried  the  young  heart  of 
Abigail,  hotly.  "An'  I  ain't  never  had  a  pretty 
youngish  dress — I  think  it's  high  time  I  had 
one  if  I'm  ever  going  to."  She  shook  out  the 
loose  folds  and  held  The  Dress  up.  Its  soft 
lengths  trailed  a  little  graciously  over  the 
newspapers  with  a  subtle  suggestion  of  a  long 
veil — a  shower  bouquet, 

"I  s'pose  you  know  what  it  looks  like?"  ruth- 
lessly demanded  her  Inheritance.  Abigail 
Bliss  clasped  the  dress  to  her  breast  and 
whirled  around  with  blazing  cheeks  and  defiant 
eyes. 

"Yes,  I  do — it  looks  like  a  wedding  dress!" 
she  cried  aloud,  stormily.  "Well?  It's  the 
only  chance  I'll  have  to  see  how  I'd  look  in  one, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  see!" 

Her  fingers  blundered  over  the  unaccus- 
tomed frailness  of  tiny  crochet  buttons  as  she 
dressed  herself  in  the  dainty  white  dress, 
thrusting  her  ugly  print  gown  in  a  crumpled 
heap  under  the  sofa,  her  thoughts  in  an  un- 
bridled riot  of  pleasant  fancies.     Suppose  it 


HER  PINK  HOUR  63 

were  fifteen  years  ago  and  Horace's  mother 
hadn't  broken  her  hip — suppose  when  she 
looked  in  the  glass  she  should  see  a  wondrous 
fashion-plate  Abigail  Bliss  with  masses  of 
hair,  pink  youngness  of  cheeks,  a  figure  that 
was  not  thin  and  flat-chested — suppose — sup- 
pose— 

So  deep  was  she  in  her  happy  pretense  that 
she  had  forgotten  the  passing  of  time.  AVhen 
one  has  rubbed  out  fifteen  years  in  a  breath, 
an  hour  more  or  less  by  the  clock  passes  un- 
noticed. Slow  footsteps  plodded  middle-agedly 
up  the  walk,  creaked  on  the  door-stone,  but  she 
did  not  notice.  With  eager  fingers  she  jerked 
and  pulled  the  tight  strands  of  her  hair  until 
they  fell  in  a  loose  frame  about  her  little, 
pointed  face.  Then  with  a  long  breath  of 
anticipation  she  faced  the  mirror  hanging  in 
the  tarnished  importance  of  a  gilt  frame  on 
the  wall. 

She  gave  a  wordless  little  wail  of  disappoint- 
ment. The  Abigail  Bliss  of  her  fancy  had  not 
had  thin,  graying  hair,  or  fine  lines  in  her  soft 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  searched  the  reflection  wist- 
fully, but  she  saw  with  cruel  distinctness  a 
faded  plain  face  above  a  girl's  fluffy  dress. 
Her  hands  went  out  in  a  gesture  as  though  she 


64  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

were  saying  good-by  to  the  other  young  Abi- 
gail. 

"No,  I  don't  belong,"  she  said  in  sad  accept- 
ance. "I've  waited  too  long.  I  guess  maybe 
I  never  belonged.  I  was  born  an  old  maid  and 
they  made  it  worse  by  naming  me  Abigail.  If 
it  had  'a'  been  Evelyn  or  Mildred,  now,  maybe 
I'd  'a'  had  yaller  hair  and  blue  eyes."  She 
laughed,  but  the  attempt  was  rather  a  sorry 
failure  with  the  misfit  reflection  of  herself 
before  her  eyes.  "The  dress  doesn't  look  ac- 
quainted with  me.    I  don't  feel  introduced !" 

In  the  doorway  Horace  Walker  gazed  at  the 
sight  before  him  with  dazed  astonishment. 
This  was  not  the  Abigail  Bliss,  dressmaker, 
that  he  had  been  calling  on,  in  staid  dull  calls, 
for  fifteen  years — this  was  the  Abby  he  had 
called  on  the  first  time.  Once  he  had  hoped 
she  would  wear  a  dress  like  that  for  him.  Old 
dormant  recollections  stirred  in  Horace 
Walker's  mind.  Their  awakening  bewildered 
him.  He  and  Abby  were  too  old  for  such 
things — old?  Abby?  Why,  Abby  was  young 
in  the  frilly  lace  dress ! 

He  started  forward  in  the  doorway  with 
clumsy  hesitating  feet.  The  old  boards 
squeaked  beneath  his  steps  and  Abigail  Bliss, 


HER  PINK  HOUR  65 

startled  from  the  sad  little  wreckage  of  her 
fancy,  saw  in  his  face  the  reflection  that  the 
mirror  had  denied  her — the  pretty,  girl- 
Abigail. 

"Why — why — Horace,"  she  cried  in  her  sur- 
prise. Shamed  red  burned  in  her  cheeks.  Her 
hands  fluttered  piteously  to  her  loosened  hair. 
"I  didn't  hear  you — I  guess  I'd  forgotten  what 
time  it  w^as." 

"The  door  was  unhasped,"  the  big  man  an- 
swered, slowly.  His  good,  homely,  bearded 
face  turned  toward  her  with  a  bewildered  glad- 
ness. "Why,  Abby!"  he  cried,  huskily.  His 
great  ungainly  hands  clutched  and  twisted 
his  soft  hat  in  pitiful  unease.  "Abby,  you  look 
— just  like  you  used  to — when  we  went  riding 
that  time — I  always  thought — I  meant — "  his 
words  stumbled  and  tripped  over  each  other 
in  a  helpless,  unused  sort  of  way.  "  'Twas 
mother's  fall  and  Sist'  Libby's  husband  being 
took  so  sudden  like — I  was  poor  then,  Abby." 

A  soft,  gentle  little  silence  waited  in  the 
room.  Outdoors  in  the  summer  dusk  a  phono- 
graph, distance-sweet,  prattled  of  "love"  and 
"dove"  and  silly  young  sentiment.  Feet  of 
youthful  stragglers  on  their  way  home  from 
prayer  meeting  lingered  along  the  sidewalk. 


66  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Abby!"  cried  Horace  Walker  and  held  out 
his  arms.  She  drew  back  in  tremulous  agita- 
tion before  the  unspoken  words  of  his  eyes. 

"Be  careful — the  dress — you'll  crush  it, 
Horace!"  she  cried;  but  the  outflung,  needle- 
rough  hands,  the  wistful  eyes,  the  whole  little 
fluttering  self  of  her  invited  him. 

"Go  an'  put  on  another  dress,  then — quick," 
he  cried,  impatient.  "I  guess  I've  waited  long 
enough — fifteen  years  is  long  enough — Lord, 
Abby,  what  a  fool  I  been !" 

His  voice  caught  in  a  groan.  With  the 
mother-instinct  of  comfort  she  went  to  him. 

"Never  mind  the  dress,  Horace,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

Later  in  the  evening  Abigail  Bliss  stood  on 
the  worn  door-stone  and  leaned  over  the  old 
rosebush.  In  the  faint  blur  of  moonlight  the 
bud  on  the  topmost  branches  swung  open-eyed 
and  perfect.  It  seemed  an  echo  of  the  joy  that 
had  bloomed  for  her  in  the  wonderful  evening. 

"See,  ain't  it  beautiful?"  she  cried,  softly. 
"It  waited  for  a  posy  for  a  long  time,  but  when 
it  came  'twas  worth  waitin'  for.  Look,  Horace 
— it's  a  pink  one !" 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY 


A  HAIECLOTH  MUTINY 

EUPHRASIA  TIBBITTS  sugared  and 
creamed  her  husband's  coffee  with  com- 
pressed lips.  It  was  a  very  important  cup  of 
coffee.  Large  issues  hung  on  its  flavor.  A  mite 
too  much  cream  or  too  little  sugar,  now — ! 
Her  thin,  knuckley  hands  almost  trembled  as 
she  pushed  it  across  the  red-checked  cloth 
toward  Samuel,  in  total  eclipse  behind  the 
local  paper.  His  broad,  stubby  fingers  came 
groping  out  to  meet  the  cup,  lifted  it — an 
appreciative  gurgling  sound  behind  the  paper, 
and  the  cup  returned  to  the  level  of  her 
anxious  gaze — empty. 

Euphrasia  drew  a  gaspy  breath.  Her  hands 
clutched  the  table  edge  as  though  to  keep  her- 
self from  running  away.  It  was,  to  her,  a 
desperate  thing  she  was  about  to  do.  In  nearly 
twenty-five  colorless  years  of  wifehood  she  had 
never  tested  Samuel  before.  Between  him  and 
Shady  Valley's  estimation  of  him  she  had 
erected  her  pitiable  barrier  of  pretense,  and 
with  petty  little  economies  and  brave  shams 

69 


70  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

had  built  a  decent  wall  about  his  stinginess, 
trying  loyally  to  hide  it  even  from  her  own 
eyes. 

"Thrifty,  that's  what  Sam'l  is,"  she  had 
taught  herself  in  her  long  years  of  schooling. 
"I  ain't  never  asked  him  for  anything  he  didn't 
give  me,  hev  I?  If  I  ever  did,  I  guess  folks 
would  see !" 

And  now  she  was  going  to  ask.  She  had 
come  to  the  end  of  her  resources,  but  an  inner 
voice  warned  her  not  to  go  on.  With  all  the 
strength  of  her  soul  she  did  not  want  to  see 
Sam'l  as  others  saw  him.  Yet  it  was  now  or 
never — it  was  now. 

"Sam'l!"  it  came  out  with  a  little  rush, 
"Sam'l—" 

"M-m-m — what  say?"  The  paper  did  not 
lower.  Samuel  was  reading  the  market  reports 
with  pleased  calculating  eye.  Flour  two  cents 
lower — potatoes  firm.  His  lips  made  little 
gruff,  twittery  noises,  reckoning  it  up  in 
dollars  and  cents. 

"I  want — I — will  you  hev  'nother  cup 
coffee?" 

At  the  last  moment  her  courage  had  balked. 
She  filled  the  cup,  aquiver  with  shame  at  her- 
self.   Did  she  doubt  Sam'l,  then,  that  she  was 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  71 

afraid  to  speak  out  plain?  She  drew  back  the 
refilled  cup  with  a  sudden  sharp  jerk  that 
splashed  a  brown  stain  across  the  cloth. 

"Sam'l,  won't  you  please  put  down  the 
paper,  jest  for  a  minute?"  she  said,  palely. 
"I — there's  somethin'  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about." 

The  paper  rustled  with  impatience.  "Well 
— I'm  a-listening." 

"Sam'l,"  she  said,  then,  clearly,  "I  want  you 
should  give  me  a  hundred  dollars." 

The  words  had  the  odd  effect  of  an  explosion, 
bringing  the  front  legs  of  Samuel's  chair  crash- 
ing down.  His  broad  red  face,  ludicrous  with 
amazement,  peered  over  the  lowered  New^s. 
She  met  his  gaze  calmly,  though  beneath  the 
cloth  her  knees  chattered  together. 

"I  guess  you  better  let  me  hev  it  to-day, 
Sam'l,"  she  went  on,  steadily.  "You  could  git 
it  soon's  the  bank  opens  up,  an'  send  Willie 
Pratt  over  with  it.  Or  I  c'n  stop  at  the  store 
if  Willie's  busy — " 

"Send  Willie  Pratt  over  with  it,"  he  re- 
peated, heavily,  "or  you  c'n  stop  at  the  store 
— a  hundred  dollars — be  you  stark,  ravin' 
crazy,  Euphrasia  Tibbitts?" 

She  gathered  herself  in  hand  and  stood  up, 


72  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

a  lean,  blue-ginghamed  little  figure  of  revolt 
that  he  hardly  recognized. 

"No,  I  ain't  crazy,  Sam'l ;"  her  voice  was  low 
with  the  effect  of  shrilling ;  "I'll  tell  you  what 
I  want  it  for — to  buy  me  a  new  parlor  set  cov- 
ered with  red  rep,  an'  a  new  flowered  Brus- 
sels rug  for  the  front  room — that's  what  I 
want  it  for.  I  guess  mebbe  you  don't  know 
how  long  I've  hed  that  haircloth  set,  Sam'l." 

"  'Twas  mother's,"  said  Samuel  Tibbitts 
with  a  tightening  of  the  heavy  red  muscles  of 
his  jaw.  "I  guess  what  was  good  'nough  for 
mother  is  good  'nough  for  us.  I  guess  we  got 
no  call  t'  go  spendin'  our  hard-come-by  money 
on  such  foolishness.  Why,  Euphrasie,  I  never 
heerd  the  like!  D'ye  s'pose  money  grows  on 
trees?" 

"But  you  got  it — ain't  you,  Sam'l?"  she 
trembled,  doggedly  persistent.  "O,  Sam'l,  I 
want  to  hev  the  Ladies'  Aid — all  the  other 
women  has  hed  it  'cept  me,  time  an'  again. 
They  think  it's — queer,  you  the  biggest  grocer 
in  town,  an'  able  t'  git  the  refreshments  at 
cost,  so.  An'  the  sofy's  worn  clean  through  to 
the  bones,  Sam'l,  an'  they  ain't  one  of  the 
chairs  I'd  resk  Mis'  Silas  Bean  sittin'  down  on, 
heavy  as  she  be.     O,  Sam'l,  I  ain't  never  ast 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  73 

for  anythin'  afore  an'  I  won't  agin !  Just  this 
oncet,  Sam'l.  It's  been  a  good  year  to  the  store, 
ain't  it?  Mebbe  I  could  do  with  some  less.  I 
seen  an  advertisement  in  the  Centerville 
Gazette  where  rugs  was  marked  'way  down — 
you  wouldn't  believe  how  cheap  they  was, 
Sam'l.  I — I  guess  I  could  make  seventy-five 
stretch,  only  seventy-five,  Sam'l — O,  Sam'l!" 

Her  husband  pushed  back  his  chair  noisily 
and  rose.  She  watched  him  take  down  his 
alpaca  store  coat,  and  struggle  into  it,  and 
knew  by  the  stubborn  set  of  his  shoulders  that 
she  had  failed.  Slow  difficult  tears  filmed  her 
faded  eyes. 

"I  ain't  got  money  to  throw  away,  Euphra- 
sie,"  said  Samuel  Tibbitts,  with  not  unkindly 
firmness,  "an'  it's  just  as  well  the  Ladies'  Aid 
shouldn't  meet  here;  they's  plenty  of  folks  to 
hev  it,  without  their  eatin'  us  out  of  house  and 
home."  He  went  out,  then  paused  in  the  door- 
way. "You  take  the  rest  o'  that  mutton  'n' 
turn  it  into  a  stew  for  dinner,"  he  directed, 
briskly.  "I'll  be  home  'bout  one  or  ha'  past. 
An'  don't  you  go  to  frettin'  over  red  rep  sofys, 
Euphrasie.  You'd  ought  to  be  thankful  we  c'n 
keep  out  o'  the  poorhouse,  livin'  's  high  as  'tis 
these  days." 


T4  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Euphrasia  Tibbitts  stood  a  long  while  after 
her  husband's  heavy  footsteps  had  plodded 
down  the  gravel  walk,  a  dull  flush  reddening 
her  thin  cheeks.  Suddenly  she  felt  ashamed. 
It  was  not  for  herself,  not  for  her  shabby,  form- 
less clothing  or  unlovely  home,  but  for  Samuel. 
She  remembered  Mrs.  Bisbee's  covert  glance 
in  her  direction  at  the  last  Aid  meeting,  and 
the  whisper  she  had  overheard : 

"Samuel  Tibbitts  could  buy  out  any  of  us 
twice  over,  but  he  wouldn't  give  a  red  cent 
toward  sendin'  the  gospel  to  the  Chinee." 

And  the  reply,  barbed  with  malice : 

"When  the  Ladies'  Aid  sets  in  the  Tibbitts's 
front  room,  an'  drinks  the  Tibbitts's  fifty-cent 
tea,  an'  eats  the  Tibbitts's  layer  cake  the  mil- 
lennium'll  be  pretty  nigh  due." 

It  had  been  the  sting  of  this  eavesdropping 
that  had  prodded  her  on  to  ask  Samuel,  and 
now  Samuel  had  refused.  Her  pitiably  built 
ideal  of  him  lay  in  shattered  fragments  about 
her  feet.  She  had  an  impulse  to  get  broom 
and  dust  pan  and  sweep  them  up  in  a  hurry 
so  that  no  one  else  should  see. 

"Though  I  don't  know's  it  makes  much  dif- 
ference what  other  folks  think,"  she  cried  in  a 
sudden  flare  of  bitterness  aloud.    "It's  what  / 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  75 

think  that  matters !  Here  I  be,  forty-three,  an' 
what  hev  I  got  for  all  my  serimpin'  an'  savin' 
an'  goin'  without  all  these  years!  A  rug  so 
faded  you  can't  see  the  pattern,  an'  a  broken- 
down  haircloth  sofy,  an'  mutton  stew!"  She 
laughed  out  harshly  over  the  last  item.  The 
accumulated  revolt  of  twenty-five  years  was 
upon  her  in  a  whirl  of  forbidden  thoughts  and 
ideas.  "Sam'l's  got  so  he  likes  stews  better  'n 
sirloin  steak !"  she  stormed  on  inwardly.  "He 
likes  bread  puddings,  an'  tapioca,  an'  biled 
rice,  but  I  don't!  I  been  starvin'  slow  these 
twenty- five  year !" 

A  knock  at  the  back  door  called  her  to  the 
kitchen.  The  butcher's  boy  stood  on  the  steps, 
pencil  poised  perfunctorily  over  his  order  book. 
To  her  suddenly  sensitive  vision  there  seemed 
to  be  derision  in  the  hovering  pencil,  waiting 
to  write  down  "a  pound  'n'  a  half  of  mutton," 
or  "corned  beef,  the  twelve-cent  kind."  A  sud- 
den wild  impulse  to  confound  it  seized  her  in 
its  grip. 

"Mornin',  Mis'  Tibbitts — something  for  you 
to-day?"  nodded  the  butcher  boy,  politely.  He 
was  making  ready  to  shut  up  his  book. 

"Mornin',  Johnny,"  said  Euphrasia  Tibbitts 
with  a  kind  of  ferocity — twin  excitement  spots 


76  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

blazed  in  the  hollows  of  her  cheeks.  "Yes,  I 
do  want  somethin'  for  dinner  to-day.  Let's  see. 
"S'pose  you  bring  me  a  couple  pounds  your 
best  top  sirloin — ^you  got  some  real  nice  and 
tender,  Johnny?" 

The  pencil  wavered  with  surprise.  Johnny 
hesitated.  "Best  sirloin's  thirty  cents  a 
pound,"  he  ventured.  "We  got  some  round 
steak,  now,  at  twenty-four — " 

Euphrasia's  lips  tightened. 

"If  there's  anythin'  I  can't  abide  its  cheap 
cuts  o'  steak,"  she  sniffed.  "Two  o'  the  sirloin, 
Johnny — and,  Johnny — never  mind  about  put- 
tin'  in  the  trimmin's !" 

Alone  in  the  kitchen  she  faced  herself  defi- 
antly. "Sixty  cents !"  she  said  aloud  in  slow, 
luxurious  syllables,  as  though  she  liked  the 
taste  of  the  words.  "I  ain't  spent  sixty  cents 
on  dinner  sence  I  was  a  girl."  Her  eyes  shone. 
"An'  I'm  goin'  to  hev  lemon  pie  for  dessert," 
she  cried.  "Eggs  is  thirty-five  cents  a  dozen, 
an'  lemons  is  awful  high — I  could  use  corn 
starch  an'  extract,  but  I  ain^t  a-goin'  to!" 

She  bustled  about  her  morning's  work,  revel- 
ing guiltily  in  the  sense  of  the  unusual.  When 
Willie  Pratt,  her  husband's  delivery  boy,  went 
by  the  house  on  his  morning  rounds  she  hailed 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  77 

him  with  a  list  of  groceries  that  quite  paled 
his  brickish  complexion  under  its  freckle  film. 

"Send  'em  right  over,  Willie,"  she  bade  him, 
briskly.  "An'  don't  bother  Mr.  Tibbitts  about 
'em — he's  goin'  to  be  dretful  busy  this  mornin' 
makin'  out  bills." 

Rebellion  is  apt  to  go  to  the  head  a  little. 
Euphrasia  was  intoxicated  with  her  sip  of  it. 
She  broke  open  a  whole  dozen  eggs  for  the  pure 
joy  of  hearing  the  crisp  crack  of  their  shells. 
She  measured  out  butter  and  sugar  and  lemon 
juice  with  a  lavish  hand.  The  pie,  finished  at 
length,  steamed  in  a  huge  succulent  golden 
circlet  on  the  pantry  shelf.  She  gloated  gently 
over  it  as  over  a  work  of  art. 

"What'll  Sam'l  say?"  asked  her  conscience, 
sharply.  "I  guess  you  ain't  thought  about 
that,  hev  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  Sam'l  will  say,  an'  I 
don't  care!"  cried  the  new  Euphrasia,  mili- 
tantly.  She  caught  up  a  broom  and  bustled 
into  the  front  room  to  evade  the  accusing  voice. 
Somewhere  under  the  tingle  of  her  daring  she 
was  aghast  at  herself,  but  she  would  not  pause 
to  think. 

"I  been  sorter  workin'  an'  spilin'  inside,  like 
a  jar  of  preserves,"  she  thought,  breathlessly. 


78  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"I  been  screwed  down  an'  bottled  np  so  long 
that  somethin's  liable  to  happen." 

She  had  reached  the  front  room  door,  and 
paused,  broom  suspended  in  midair.  The 
whole  shabby,  starved  room  seemed  to  cry  out 
to  her  with  a  hundred  silent  little  clamors: 
the  curtains  she  had  patched  and  repatched, 
the  napless  carpet  with  the  bloom  worn  off 
its  fruits  and  flowers,  the  ugly  oil  paintings  in 
their  carved  black  walnut  frames,  the  hair- 
cloth raveling  and  prickly,  the  old  sofa  with 
its  stuffing  protruding  from  unmendable  rents 
in  its  arms,  like  an  out-at-elbows  tramp  who 
has  seen  better  days. 

"I've  mended  till  there  ain't  anything  but  a 
hole  left  to  mend !"  she  murmured,  hopelessly. 
"It  ain't  fit  for  anything  now  but  the  bonfire." 

She  sank  down  on  one  of  the  rickety  chairs, 
quite  faint  at  the  wild  idea  that  had  flashed 
through  her  mind.  The  grandfather's  clock  in 
the  hall  ticked  five  minutes,  apprehensively 
and  warningly,  before  she  stirred.  Then  she 
stood  up  straight  and  pale,  and  gripped  the 
chair  by  its  unsure  arms. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  in  the  marriage  cere- 
mony or  the  Bible  about  not  burnin'  up  a  hair- 
cloth parlor  set,"  muttered  Euphrasia  Tibbitts 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  79 

through  compressed  lips.  "Mebbe  it's  ag'in' 
the  law— but  I'll  risk  it !" 

She  carried  the  chair,  bumping  awkwardly 
against  her  thin  knees,  across  the  hall  and  into 
the  front  yard.  The  Tibbitts'  house  stood  at 
the  end  of  the  village,  a  vacant  lot  on  either 
side.  Into  one  of  these  lots  Euphrasia  and  the 
chair  toiled  painfully  and  halted  under  a 
gnarled  oak  tree.  She  put  the  chair  down  and 
hurried  back  to  the  house  for  another.  Six 
trips  she  made  back  and  forth.  On  the  last 
one  the  curtains  and  rug  were  added  to  the 
pile.  When  she  came  at  length  to  the  sofa  she 
was  limp  and  breathless.  She  sank  down  on 
it  a  moment  to  rest.  About  her  the  dismantled 
room  looked  oddly  large  and  unfamiliar. 
Square  spots  of  color  on  the  faded  wall  paper 
showed  where  the  pictures  had  hung. 

"His  Aunt  Emmeline  painted  'em,"  she 
thought,  hardily.  "They  was  wedding  pres- 
ents, 'cause  she  could  do  'em  cheaper  than 
buyin'  anything.  She  was  a  Tibbitts  through 
and  through.  The  'Spanish  Fishermaiden' 
one  took  the  first  prize  at  the  art  booth  at  the 
country  fair.  I  allers  thought  'twas  dretful 
ugly  myself.  She  never  traveled  any  nearer 
furren   parts   than   Boston,   Aunt   Emmeline 


80  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

didn't.  Queer  how  folks  that  live  amongst 
apple  orchards  an'  piney  woods  an'  Yankees  all 
their  lives  choose  Alps  an'  Eyetalians  an'  out- 
landish clothes  when  they  come  to  do  some 
art—" 

The  clock  striking  half-past  eleven  brought 
her  from  her  reflections  to  her  tired  feet  in  a 
panic  of  haste.  She  bent  her  whole  frail 
strength  to  the  sofa,  and  it  moved  ponderously, 
with  protesting  rheumatic  squeaks  and  groans, 
as  though  conscious  it  was  headed  toward  its 
doom.  Through  doorways,  down  steps,  across 
the  lawn  Euphrasia's  determination  generaled 
the  unwieldy  thing.  Gray  wisps  of  hair  hung 
streakily  against  her  damp  cheeks,  her  bony 
wrists  and  middle-aged  joints  protesting  twing- 
ingly,  but  she  panted  on. 

Five  minutes  later  a  shocked  voice  from  the 
gate  aroused  her  from  her  work  of  destruction. 
She  turned,  kerosene  oil  can  in  her  hand. 

"Land  o'  Goshen !  Euphrasie  Tibbitts,  what 
air  you  doin'?  You  clean  out  o'  your  mind,  I 
want  to  know?"  Mrs.  Bisbee  looked  from 
Euphrasia's  resolute  figure  to  the  parlor  set, 
already  spouting  flames,  and  back  again  to 
Euphrasia,  mouth  ajar.  Indeed,  there  was 
something  almost  uncanny  about  the  sight. 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  81 

Against  the  bright  destruction  of  her  house- 
hold goods  Euphrasia's  bony  form,  in  its  blow- 
ing gingham  skirts,  and  the  wisps  of  gray  hair 
tangled  about  her  face,  took  on  the  aspect  of 
some  old  Druid  sorceress  performing  an  un- 
hallowed rite  to  strange  deities.  But  Euphra- 
sia's tone  was  quite  matter-of-fact,  as  though 
burning  haircloth  parlor  sets  was  a  natural 
part  of  the  day's  work. 

"O,  it's  you,  Mis'  Bisbee,"  she  called,  cheer- 
ily. "Walk  in  and  set,  won't  you?  I'll  be 
through  here  in  a  jiffy." 

Mrs.  Bisbee  gave  a  frightened  look  at  her. 
She  had  never  heard  that  sudden  insanity  ran 
in  the  Bennett  family,  and  yet^ — 

"But,  Euphrasie — ain't  that — your  parlor 
set?"  she  faltered.  "An'  there's  one  o'  Emme- 
line  Tibbitts's  oil  paintings  jest  catchin' — an' 
your  rug — O,  Euphrasie,  I  never  heerd  of  sech 
a  thing !" 

"They  look  real  pretty  burnin',  don't  they?" 
said  Euphrasia  Tibbitts  calmly.  "Those  paint- 
ings burn  specially  nice.  I  was  sick  an'  tired 
of  'em." 

She  bent  over  to  poke  one  of  the  chairs  fur- 
ther into  the  flame.  Her  eyes  sparkled  de- 
fiantly as  she  faced  her  visitor  again.    "They 


82  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

was  gettin'  dretful  shabby,"  she  said,  largely. 
"SamTs  goin'  to  buy  me  a  red  rep  set  an'  a 
body  Brussels  next  week,  an'  I  thought  I  might 
as  well  git  this  one  out  o'  the  way.  I  despise 
to  clutter  up  my  attic  with  old  trash,  don't 
you?" 

The  tide  of  her  invention  swept  her  on  reck- 
lessly. She  held  her  head  higher.  They 
thought  Sam'l  was  stingy,  did  they?  She 
would  show  them ! 

"And  just  as  soon's  it  comes  I'm  goin'  to  hev 
the  Ladies'  Aid  to  a  supper  social,"  she  fin- 
ished, briskly.  "I  been  meanin'  to  for  a  long 
spell." 

Samuel  Tibbitts  came  home  to  dinner  early, 
with  a  grievance.  He  carried  it  in  his  hand 
with  him — the  list  of  groceries  his  wife  had 
ordered  that  morning.  Below  it  was  the  amaz- 
ing, incredible  total,  "|1.85."  The  figures 
drove  his  feet  in  angry  thuds  along  the  side- 
walk. He  would  find  out  what  Euphrasie 
meant  by  such  doin's;  he  would  tell  her  once 
an'  for  all,  plain — 

At  the  gate  of  his  home  he  stopped.  It  was 
not  from  intention,  but  because  his  legs  would 
not  bear  him  further.  They  actually  wabbled 
under  him.     By  the  great  Horn  Spoon,  what 


A  HAIRCLOTH  MUTINY  83 

was  Euphrasie  up  to  now?  He  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak,  but  no  words  came,  and  he 
forgot  to  close  it. 

His  wife  glanced  up  and  saw  him.  For  an 
instant  she  quailed,  feeling  the  new  mantle  of 
her  independence  slipping  from  her  stooping 
shoulders,  under  Sam'l's  furious  gaze.  Then 
her  spirit  put  up  determined  fingers  and  jerked 
it  on  again.  With  careful  lack  of  haste  she 
poked  the  Spanish  Fishermaiden  into  the  heart 
of  the  flame  and  dusted  her  hands  daintily  on 
her  apron.  Then,  head  high,  she  crossed  the 
lawn  to  Samuel. 

He  watched  her  helplessly,  big  jaw  wagging 
without  sound. 

"I've  burnt  up  the  parlor  set,  Sam'l,"  said 
Euphrasia,  gently.  "I  knew  you'd  want  I 
should  if  you  reely  stopped  to  think.  'Twas 
gittin'  so  old  it  warn't  hardly  respectable.  To- 
morrow you  an'  me'll  drive  over  to  Center- 
ville  an'  pick  out  a  new  one.  I've  allers  said 
red  rep,  but  if  you'd  rather  we'll  get  green." 

Samuel  Tibbitts  gazed  at  his  wife  in  a  kind 
of  awe.  Was  this  the  meek,  fluttering  Eu- 
phrasie he  had  sat  across  the  table  from  for 
twenty  five  years,  this  bright-eyed,  pink- 
cheeked,  eager  little  woman  person  with  the 


84  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

straight  backbone?  Why,  she  looked  more  like 
the  Euphrasie  he  had  gone  a-eourting  long  ago. 
His  wondering  glance  fell  on  her  bony  little 
hands  and  thin  wrists  protruding  from  her 
scanty  sleeves,  and  suddenly,  unaccountably, 
his  eyes  filled. 

"  'Twas  too — heavy — for  you,  Euphrasie," 
he  muttered,  difficultly.  "You'd  ought  to  hev 
got  me  to  help  you  move  'em." 

Euphrasia  looked  up  at  him  in  sudden  queer 
shyness.  The  distressed  helplessness  in  his  big 
flabby  red  face  called  to  the  mother  of  her  for 
comforting.  She  laid  a  timid  hand  on  his 
alpaca  sleeve. 

"Come  in  an'  I'll  hev  dinner  ready,  quick  as 
3'ou  can  say  Jack  Robinson !"  she  said  with  a 
brisk  striving  for  commonplaceness.  "It  won't 
take  a  minute  to  fry  the  steak.  I  guess  mebbe 
you're  hungry,  ain't  you,  Sam'l?" 

"Euphrasie !    Honey !" 

She  felt  his  awkward  kiss  on  her  forehead 
and  her  cheeks  flamed  like  a  girl's. 

"Sam'l!"  she  reproved  him,  joyously.  "O, 
Sam'l,  what  will  the  neighbors  say?" 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER 


ANCESTORS  AND  FEATHER 

«T  BELIEVE  Great  Aunt  Em'line  '11  just 
X  about  cover  that  new  spot."  Paula  Pren- 
tiss surveyed  the  damp  patch  on  the  faded  rose 
and  gold  of  the  wall  paper,  head  doubtfully 
a-tilt.  "It's  sort  of  square,  and  Aunt  Em'line's 
round,  but  I  guess  she'll  stretch" — a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  an  unsighed  sigh  undertoned  the 
words.  She  moved  across  the  dim  little  parlor 
to  the  cupboard  with  a  slow,  gracefully  stilted 
step — it  was  as  if  one  of  her  own  slender 
straight  old  Chippendale  chairs  had  taken  on 
motion.  From  the  prim  miscellany  of  old  pic- 
tures beneath  the  shelves  she  drew  out  an  oval 
frame  of  black  walnut  carved  into  varnished 
bunches  of  grapes,  and  dusted  it  off  tenderly. 

"It's  real  lucky,"  smiled  Paula,  whimsically, 
"to  have  so  many  ancestors — they  come  in 
handy,  ancestors  do,  in  covering  up  spots  in 
folks'  lives.  But  I  do  sort  of  wish  I  could  get 
clapboarded  and  painted  up,  or  else  that  Shady 
Valley  didn't  have  quite  so  much  weather." 
87 


88  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

This  time  the  sigh  was  unmistakable.  Paula 
Prentiss  looked  about  the  dingy  little  parlor 
with  eyes  that  tried  their  wistful  best  not  to 
see  the  patternless  parts  of  the  woven  rug,  the 
scratches  webbing  the  ancient  highboy,  the 
quaint  card  table,  toppling  on  three  spidery 
legs,  and  the  Webster's  Dictionary. 

Ancestors  were  about  the  only  things  she  did 
have,  ancestors  and  the  dim  dignity  of  the 
Prentiss  name  and  the  gentle  heritage  of  the 
Prentiss  pride  that  hovered  over  the  thread- 
bare gentility  of  the  room  like  a  vague  odor 
of  dried  lavender  flowers.  It  was  pride  that 
untied  her  dusting  apron,  now,  in  a  panic  of 
haste  at  the  shrill  warning  of  the  front  door 
bell.  In  Shady  Valley  morning  calls  are  ordi- 
narily made  through  the  friendly  unceremony 
of  back  doors,  or  over  neighborly  fences — the 
ringing  of  the  bell  augured  the  unusual.  At 
the  same  time  on  the  boards  of  the  porch 
shuffled  impatiently  the  black,  cloth-gaitered 
feet  of  one  bearing  ill  tidings.  Paula  whisked 
the  apron  out  of  sight,  smoothed  her  hair,  and 
hurried  to  the  door. 

They  were  Mrs.  Bisbee's  feet ;  and  from  Mrs. 
Bisbee's  rolled-up  wrapper  sleeves  and  the 
steamy  redness  of  her  elbows  it  was  apparent 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER        89 

that  the  news  had  seized  her  unexpectedly 
over  her  Monday  wash  tubs. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  tell?"  asked  Mrs. 
Bisbee,  breathlessly,  before  the  door  was  quite 
open.  "No,  Paula,  don't  ast  me  in — I'm  in 
soak  this  minute  and  I  haven't  no  kind  of  faith 
in  the  new-fangled  washin'  powder  I'm  usin' 
— I  must  hurry  along  back.  But  when  Mr.  B. 
told  me  about  the  trolley  scheme  I  says  to  him, 
I  says,  'I'm  goin'  straight  over  to  Paula  Pren- 
tiss'— I  know  how  bad  shell  feel  to  hear  it,'  I 
says,  'seein'  how  she's  one  of  the  first  settlers 
on  her  grandfather's  side,  an',  anyhow,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  a  mite  if  Paula  used  to  know 
Prather  McDowell,'  I  says  to  Mr.  B."  Mrs. 
Bisbee  paused  for  breath. 

"Prather  McDowell!"  Faint  consciousness 
vied  in  Paula's  voice  Avith  utter  bewilderment. 
"I  ain't  heard  of  Prather  McDowell  in  years 
— I  went  to  'Cademy  with  him,  and  he  was  real 
smart  and  up-and-coming,  Prather  was." 

Mrs.  Bisbee  smiled  grimly.  "He  still  is, 
then,"  she  nodded.  "They  say  he  invented  a 
new  suspender  buckle  and  made  a  pile  o'  money 
out  o'  it.  Now  he's  bought  up  the  Centerville 
street  car  company  an'  aims  to  run  a  trolley 
line  through  Shady  Valley — straight  through 


90  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

the  middle  o'  the  street,  past  the  Methodist 
meetin'  house,  an'  by  the  Soldiers'  Monument 
on  the  Common." 

"Land  a  mercy,  you  don't  say !" 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  in  a 
subdued  elation  of  distress,  Mrs.  Bisbee  plain- 
tively triumphant  over  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"Folks  is  consider'ble  worked  up,"  she  said. 
"Mr.  B.  claims  he  ain't  seen  so  much  excite- 
ment sence  Doctor  Whipple  voted  Democratic 
back  in  the  'lection  of  ninety-five." 

"It's  dretfuV^  Paula's  voice  quavered  with 
gentle  indignation.  "It  hadn't  ought  to  be 
allowed — noisy  cars  clanging  by  and  strange 
folks  staring  out  at  us.  Why,  I  always  set  my 
clock  by  seeing  Ben  Crosby  driving  the  Center- 
ville  stage  up  to  the  post  office,  nights,  with 
the  mail." 

After  Mrs.  Bisbee  had  hurried  away  tubward 
Paula  stood  looking  distressfully  down  the 
elm-arched  street  vista  where  a  grocer's  cart 
ambled  sleepily,  leaf -flecked  with  shadows.  To 
her  troubled  imagination  it  was  a  trolley  car, 
blatantly  yellow,  disturbingly  inappropriate  to 
a  quiet  old-time  village  in  the  contented  back- 
water of  life. 

"Mrs.  Bisbee  can't  feel  it  same's  if  she  was 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER        91 

an  old  residentj"  thought  Paula  from  the 
gentle  superiority  of  her  grandfather.  In 
Shady  Valley  people  were  still  "new  folks" 
after  fifteen  years.  And  Prather  McDowell — 
the  name  had  a  flavor  of  youngness  about  it, 
a  memory  of  honest  freckles  and  big  blunder- 
ing boy's  hands  that  carried  her  strap  of  books 
home  from  the  Academy,  an  echo  of  sing-song 
voices  droning  through  the  second  conj  ugation, 
"Moneo,  moneas^  monea^.^^  Paula's  hands  stole 
to  her  hair,  touching  it  tentatively  as  though 
they  almost  expected  to  find  tightly  braided 
pigtails  strained  back  and  tied  with  stiff,  wide 
ribbon  bows.  Through  unwilling  finger  tips 
she  could  feel  the  gray. 

"Likely  he's  bald-headed  and  got  grand- 
children," sighed  Paula  with  a  whimsical  little 
shake  of  the  head.  "Twenty-five  years  is  a 
dretful  long  hyphen  between  times."  She 
turned  back  into  the  house  with  brisk  haste. 
"I'll  go  finish  dustin'  off  Great  Aunt  Em'line 
and  hang  her,"  she  planned.  "Then  I'll  pick 
a  bunch  of  cinnamon  pinks  to  set  on  the  front 
room  table  in  case  any  of  the  neighbors  should 
happen  in." 

In  the  hall  on  the  way  to  Aunt  Em'line 
Paula  paused  before  the  hatrack,  peering  into 


92  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

the  dusky  depths  of  the  mirror  with  wistful 
eyes.  She  was  searching  for  a  reminding  trace 
of  pigtails. 

But  Prather  McDowell  saw  them.  On  the 
edge  of  dusk  that  afternoon  he  strode  accus- 
tomedly  up  the  tiny  strip  of  path  to  the  porch 
where  Paula  was  sewing  under  the  honeysuckle 
fringe.  Twenty-five  years  had  covered  the 
freckles  with  a  Vandyke  beard,  but  the  hands 
that  seized  Paula's  heartily  in  a  firm  friendly 
grip  were  the  same  that  had  carried  the  book 
strap  for  her — she  would  have  known  them 
anywhere. 

"Why,  Prather  McDowell,  if  you  don't  look 
real  lifelike!"  cried  Paula,  quaintly.  She 
gazed  up  at  him  in  a  little  flutter  of  excite- 
ment. "Have  you  studied  your  Latin  lesson 
for  to-morrow?" 

The  big  man  fitted  his  great  bulk  carefully 
into  the  chair  beside  her,  shaking  his  head. 
"It's  the  subjunctive  again,  and  I  hate  sub- 
junctives!" smiled  Prather,  old-timily.  "I 
tell  you  what,  Paula,  you  write  my  sentences 
for  me  an'  I'll  take  you  fishin'  in  Shaller  Crick, 
honest  an'  true,  black  an'  blue,  I  will." 

It  is  a  very  little  way  from  Yesterday  to  To- 
day, after  all ! 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER        93 

"We've  got  a  lot  of  remembering  to  do, 
Paula,  you  and  I."  Prather  settled  back  in  his 
chair  in  comfortable  preparation.  "I  want  to 
know  what  everybody's  been  doing  since  I  went 
away — who's  got  married,  and  who  hasn't.  I 
suppose  Hiram  Saunders  is  still  courting 
Lydia  Ann  Smith,  up  on  the  Cross  Roads." 

"Land,  Prather,  he  isn't  payin'  her  attention 
now — they've  been  married  twenty  years  come 
next  Christmas !" 

Prather's  eyes  twinkled  appreciatively. 
"And  Amos  Todd — the  old  rascal?" 

"O,  Amos  got  converted  right  after  the  San 
Francisco  earthquake — he's  real  steady  now, 
Prather.  They  'lected  him  First  Selectman, 
last  town-meetin'.  Mrs.  Amos  is  real  set  up, 
bein'  First  Selectwoman  after  folks  have  spent 
so  much  time  pitying  her  on  account  of  mar- 
ryin'  Amos." 

The  talk  rambled  on  through  the  pleasant 
byways  of  reminiscence,  detailing  the  quiet 
chronicles  of  Shady  Valley.  In  the  crannies 
of  conversation  Paula  stole  sly  glances  over 
her  sewing  at  the  big  man  opposite,  noting  the 
indefinable  air  of  success  in  the  broad,  square 
shoulders — the  spruce  prosperity  of  his  busi- 
ness suit. 


94  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

The  evening  stage  rattled  up  to  the  post 
office  in  an  important  cloud  of  dust.  Along  the 
wooden  sidewalk  under  the  elms,  a  few  couples 
strolled  toward  the  drug  store  soda  fountain ; 
a  man  in  overalls,  bent  under  the  weight  of  a 
clumsy  ladder,  plodded  by,  pausing  to  light 
the  kerosene  street  lamps  behind  their  dim 
glass  frames.  Prather  McDowell  watched  the 
smoky  flame  of  the  lamps  flicker  down  the 
street  in  the  wake  of  the  ladder. 

"By  Jove,  if  that  isn't  natural!"  he  cried, 
boyishly.  "Same  old  lamps  we  used  to  shy 
stones  through — same  old  holes  the  stones 
made,  I  do  believe!  Shady  Valley  hasn't 
changed  much,  Paula,  since  I've  been  away." 

"O,  yes,"  Paula  corrected  him,  gently. 
"We've  shingled  the  meetin'  house  twice  and 
painted  the  school  building  yellow,  and  last 
year  the  Ladies'  Aid  fenced  in  the  cemetery 
with  an  oyster  supper  and  put  a  cupola  on  the 
Town  Hall  with  a  strawberry  festival.  They's 
been  quite  a  lot  of  improvements,  Prather." 

In  the  dimness  of  the  hall  the  grandfather's 
clock  on  the  stair  quavered  seven  strokes, 
agedly,  bringing  Prather  to  his  feet  in  guilty 
haste. 

"Don't  tell  me  I've  worn  out  my  welcome," 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER        95 

he  laughedj  ruefully,  "because  I'm  coming 
again,  soon,  Paula." 

Long  after  he  had  gone,  striding  erectly 
away  in  the  evening  light,  Paula  sat  looking 
vaguely  out  into  the  dusk  over  her  idle  sewing. 
"I'd  really  ought  to  have  a  new  dress  of  some 
kind,"  she  pondered  aloud.  "If  it  wasn't  such 
a  chore  to  get  over  to  Centerville,  I  believe  I'd 
go  shopping.  But  when  the  trolley  gets  to 
running  it'll  be  easier." 

At  these  revolutionary  words  a  long  line  of 
Prentiss  ancestors  shuddered  in  their  respect- 
able frames. 

Every  prim  line  of  Paula's  sedate  parlor  ex- 
pressed its  disapproval  of  Prather  McDowell's 
visits  in  the  weeks  that  followed ;  the  straight- 
backed  chairs  had  the  effect  of  standing  more 
stiffly  rigid  when  he  lounged  in  them  careless, 
man  wise;  the  shaky  center  table  trembled  in- 
dignantly on  its  aristocratic  legs  under  his 
emphatic  hand;  from  their  black  walnut 
grapes  and  wreaths  of  wooden  roses  the 
forefathers  and  foremothers  looked  down 
haughtily,  faded  crayon  noses  atilt,  as  though 
sniffing  the  new,  strange  tobacco  scent  in  the 
unaccustomed  air.  Prather,  pampered  by  his 
years  of  city  ease,  found  the  cramped,  stilted 


96  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

place  inexpressibly  hideous — pitiful  in  its 
shabbiness,  its  moldy  dignity,  its  faded  relics 
of  a  prosperous  long  ago.  If  he  had  been  at 
all  subtle,  he  would  have  discerned  the  ex- 
quisite care  that  breathed  through  the  room, 
the  fine  darns  in  the  old  lace  curtains,  the 
patient  polish  on  the  mahogany.  It  was  as 
though  Poverty  itself  had  paused  genteelly  on 
the  threshold  of  Paula's  home  to  wipe  its  feet 
upon  the  mat  before  entering.  But  his  eyes, 
seeing  man-fashion,  darkly,  traced  its  dingy 
tracks  over  everything. 

"I  went  away  too  soon,"  Prather  McDowell 
thought,  self-reproachfully,  "or  I  didn't  come 
back  soon  enough." 

He  watched  Paula  moving  gently  among 
her  time-scarred  Lares  and  Penates,  a  faint, 
indefinable  youthfulness  about  her,  uncontra- 
dicted by  the  time-colored  hair,  as  if  she  had 
grown  up  unwillingly  before  she  had  gotten 
through  being  young.  And  as  he  smoked  and 
told  her  tales  of  his  city  life,  his  great  bulk 
cramped  uncomfortably  in  the  unfriendly 
angles  of  the  Chippendale  rocker,  an  idea  grew 
slowly  in  Prather  McDowell's  mind — and  it 
was  not  an  idea  connected  in  the  least  with 
trolley  lines. 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER        97 

The  neighbors  put  gossipy  heads  together 
over  back  fences,  discussing  the  affair  with 
significant  little  nudges  and  nods. 

"To  think  of  a  Prentiss  marrying  suspender 
buckles,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bisbee,  mournfully. 
"An'  she  a  first  settler  on  her  grandfather's 
side!" 

"O,  well,  suspenders  is  respectable/'  Mrs. 
Deacon  Tupper's  tone  was  doubtful.  "I  expect 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it  her  grand- 
father wore  'em.  But  I  don't  believe  she'll 
marry  him.  Paula's  sort  o'  got  into  the  habit 
o'  bein'  an  old  maid." 

Mrs.  Deacon,  an  undisputed  authority  on 
strawberry  preserves,  was  no  matrimonial 
prophet.  In  late  August,  when  the  first  stray 
maple  leaves,  pricked  with  scarlet,  came  float- 
ing lazily  down  across  the  common  and  the 
burrs  of  the  horse  chestnuts  began  to  show 
their  satin  linings,  Prather  McDowell  asked 
Paula  to  marry  him,  his  big,  brisk  voice  shaky 
with  honest  anxiety. 

Paula  did  not  answer  him  at  once.  For 
several  moments  she  looked  before  her  raptly, 
as  at  the  visibling  of  a  cherished  dream.  Then 
she  drew  a  long  breath.  "I've  always  hankered 
to  go  on  a  wedding  trip!"  cried  Paula,  un- 


98  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

evenly.  "That  and  a  pink  silk  parasol — seem's 
if  I  was  born  wantin'  'em!" 

"You  shall  have  them  both,"  laughed  Pra- 
ther,  tenderly,  "the  pinkest  sort — the  wed- 
dingest  kind — Washington — Niagara  Falls." 

"Have  you  ever  been  there?"  she  asked  him, 
anxiously. 

"Of  course  not — I've  never  been  married  be- 
fore !"  he  reassured  her. 

"Then  I'd  rather  Washington,"  chose  Paula. 
"I've  seen  Shallow  Crick  Falls  and  the  mill- 
dam,  but  I  never  saw  a  President." 

They  were  married  in  the  parsonage,  very 
quietly,  as  though  to  get  it  over  before  the 
Prentiss  ancestors  could  hear  of  it,  and  then 
they  started  out  to  see  the  President,  Before 
he  left  Prather  set  his  surprise  in  motion.  It 
was  to  be  his  wedding  present  to  Paula. 

"The  nicest  thing  about  going  away  is  the 
coming  home  part!"  Paula  leaned  forward  in 
the  swaying  red  plush  seat,  urging  the  car  on 
with  little  jerks  of  impatience.  "All  the  time 
I  was  seeing  Congress  and  the  Supreme  Court 
in  Washington  I  kept  wondering  what  the 
Carneys  had  named  the  baby,  and  whether 
they'd   'lected    Mrs.    Bean   president   of   the 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER        99 

Foreign  Missions  or  not.  Washington's  a  real 
sightly  place  to  look  at,  Prather,  but  Shady 
Valley's  sightlier  to  be  born  an'  raised  in,  an' 
buried  in — I  shouldn't  enjoy  bein'  buried  any- 
wheres else,  seems  though."  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered to  the  flying  hills  contentedly.  "I  hope 
they  decided  on  Emma  Marie,  after  the  baby's 
grandmother,"  she  mused.  "It's  no  more'n 
right  an'  fitting  to  hand  down  a  grandmother 
to  your  children." 

All  the  way  down  the  afternoon-shadowed 
street  from  the  station  Paula  found  little  ex- 
citements to  exclaim  over  mildly.  Mrs.  Deacon 
Tupper  must  have  company — the  spare  room 
blinds  were  open.  Silas  Penny  had  painted 
his  pump  blue — seems  as  if  it  was  sort  of  a 
pity  he  hadn't  chose  red  to  match  the  barn; 
Mrs.  Bisbee's  geraniums  were  looking  real 
thrifty,  there  in  the  window;  and  here  they 
were  home!  Paula  paused  incredulously. 
Even  in  the  mantling  dusk  the  house  shone  out 
dazzling,  cheery  with  clean  white  paint  and 
new  clapboards.  Paula's  hands  went  out  to  it 
joyously. 

"Prather — O,  Prather !"  she  cried. 

"Just  you  wait  a  jiffy."  He  was  hurrying 
her  up  the  path,  fumbling  with  the  key.  Then 


100  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

the  door  creaked  open  and  he  drew  her  inside. 
An  odor  of  newness  came  to  meet  them,  the 
mingled  tang  of  varnish  and  unused  up- 
holstery. On  the  threshold  of  the  parlor  Paula 
paused  with  a  little  cry,  staring  before  her 
unfamiliarly.  In  place  of  the  sober  line  of 
ancestors,  bright  oil  paintings  flaunted  their 
gilt  frames  on  the  wall,  a  flowered  carpet 
smothered  the  floor  with  a  riot  of  roses  and 
foliage.  Unweathered  paper  covered  the  w^alls. 
The  damasked  furniture,  plump,  puffy,  unsit- 
table,  had  the  haughty  appearance  of  staring 
coldly  at  her  through  supercilious  lorgnettes. 
The  whole  gay  modern  little  room  was  un- 
Prentissed,  refurbished,  vaguely  terrifying. 

Then  through  her  bewilderment  Paula  saw 
Prather  smiling  at  her  across  the  folded  arms 
of  achievement — in  every  broad  sturdy  line 
of  him  she  could  read  his  satisfaction.  It 
shone  around  the  edges  of  his  Vandyke 
beard  and  lurked  pridefully  in  the  tones 
of  his  voice.  "Well,  honey,"  smiled  Prather, 
"rather  an  improvement — what?  Guess  I 
know  what  kind  of  a  parlor  a  woman  likes  even 
if  I  haven't  been  married  long  or  often !" 

With  sudden  wedded  intimacy  of  under- 
standing Paula  ran  to  him,  her  heart's  dismay 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER      101 

transmuted  by  some  miracle  of  woman-alchemy 
into  a  semblance  of  delight.  "It's — beautiful, 
Prather,"  she  whispered  against  the  rough 
frieze  of  his  coat.  And  the  recording  angel, 
weakly  tender  to  love's  divine  forgeries,  did 
not  dip  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  make  an  entry 
here. 

"It  makes  me  feel  as  though  I  had  new  kid 
gloves  on  my  mind!"  Paula  hesitated  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  rejuvenated  room,  the  next 
afternoon.  Prather  was  away,  trolley-tending. 
Lacking  him,  the  bald,  shiny  prosperity  of  the 
parlor  was  a  thing  to  dazzle  eyes  that  longed 
homesickly  for  old  loved  worn  places,  shabbi- 
ness,  weather  spots  on  the  walls. 

"It  don't  —  look  —  hardly  —  respectah  le !" 
sighed  Paula.  With  sudden  determination  she 
turned  and  hurried  away  up  the  staircase. 
From  the  attic  the  old  furniture,  the  ancestors 
in  their  walnut  frames  seemed  to  be  calling  her 
to  them  piteously.  Breathlessly  she  panted  up 
the  steep  stair  and  pushed  open  the  squeaky 
door  at  the  top.  Through  the  afternoon  win- 
dow, webbed  across  by  spider  webs,  vague  with 
dust,  the  faint  fall  sunlight  fell  in  a  stain  of 
gentle  light  across  the  attic  miscellany,  quiver- 
ing on  the  limp  pathos  of  dangling  garments. 


102  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

shattered  into  misty  little  pools  of  reflection 
on  the  polished  mahogany  of  the  ancient  high- 
boy, the  center  table  leaning  dejectedly  against 
the  eaves,  the  shabby  dignity  of  the  Chippen- 
dale chairs,  erect  and  stately  even  in  their 
banishment  like  proud  old  gentlewomen, 
aristocratic  in  rags.  Paula's  arms  went  out 
to  them  in  an  ecstasy  of  welcome.  Motherwise 
she  hovered  over  them,  crooning  gentle  little 
words.  Her  eyes  peering  into  the  shadowed 
recesses  sought  out  other  treasures — here  the 
chipped  blue  Wedgwood  bowl,  there  her  wax 
flowers,  there  Aunt  Em'line  tilted  rakishly 
against  the  wall.  It  was  Aunt  Em'line  that 
suggested  the  plan.  In  the  grip  of  it  Paula 
stared  about  the  attic,  arranging  it  swiftly  in 
her  mind — washing  the  tiny  windows,  rolling 
the  woven  carpet  across  the  bare  rough  boards, 
here  beside  the  door  the  highboy,  there  the 
table,  on  that  cross-beam  Aunt  Em'line. 

"It'll  be  a  place  to  set  while  Prather's  away, 
afternoons,"  planned  Paula,  joyously.  "I 
couldn't  rest  easy  on  the  roses  and  peonies 
downstairs !" 

Ideas  are  much  more  easily  moved  than 
heavy  chests  and  highboys.  It  took  several 
secret  afternoons,  damp  with  soapsuds,  brisk 


Her  eyes,  peering  into  the  shadowed  recesses,  sought  out 
other  treasures. 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER      105 

with  brooms  and  dusting  cloths  before  the  old 
parlor  appeared  again,  reconstructed  under 
Paula's  busy  hands.  The  tall  old  furniture 
had  the  effect  of  bumping  its  head  uncomfort- 
ably against  the  rafters  under  the  sloping 
eaves,  on  the  low  beams  the  ancestors  seemed 
to  be  trailing  long  ancestral  legs  on  the  floor, 
and  the  uneven  planking,  billowed  into  unex- 
pected hillocks,  fell  into  unexpected  hollows 
beneath  the  faded,  familiar  rug.  Btit  Paula's 
eyes  had  learned  to  be  nearsighted  to  imperfec- 
tions. From  the  point  of  view  of  the  Chippen- 
dale rocker  she  reviewed  her  work  with  gentle 
satisfaction. 

"When  you  miss  something  it's  like  having 
a  toothache  in  your  mind,"  she  reflected, 
whimsically.  "It's  sort  of  hard  work  living 
up  to  a  gilt  parlor  at  my  time  o'  life." 

In  the  evenings  with  Prather  reading  his 
newspaper  under  the  garish  blaze  of  the  new 
brass  reading  lamp,  Paula  sat  in  heroic  unease, 
perched  on  the  slippery  edge  of  the  damask 
sofa,  her  sewing  clutched  tensely  in  her  fingers. 
It  hardly  seemed  fitting  to  darn  stockings  or 
put  in  patches  in  the  dressed-up  atmosphere 
of  the  room.  The  afternoons  were  her  safety 
valves.     The  trolley,  grudgingly  accepted  at 


106  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

last  by  Shady  Valley,  called  Prather  away  for 
long  hours  at  a  time.  Then  Paula,  gathering 
up  her  mending  basket,  hurried  up  the  narrow 
attic  stairs  to  her  little  haven  of  shabby  con- 
tent under  the  eaves.  Through  the  crannies 
of  the  window  casings  the  brisk  autumn  air 
crept  in,  rattling  the  starchy  bones  of  the  worn 
old  lace  curtains,  swaying  the  red-stained 
woodbine  ropes  in  long  shadows  across  the 
floor.  Unconfessed,  Paula  shivered  over  her 
darning,  bending  low  to  catch  the  short  fall 
sunshine  before  it  blazed  out  into  a  frosty  sun- 
set behind  the  stark-ribbed  maple  boughs. 

It  was  this  way  that  Prather  came  upon 
her  on  the  dusky  edge  of  a  chill  November 
evening  when  he  returned  early  from  his  work. 
A  little  Paula  trail  led  him  upstairs — a  hook 
and  eye — a  scrap  of  white  muslin — and  up  he 
went,  following  them  to  the  half-open  attic 
door.  In  the  Chippendale  rocker  sat  Paula 
swaying  peacefully  to  and  fro  among  her  be- 
loved household  goods.  The  creak,  creak  of 
the  rocker  shared  the  gentle  silence  with  the 
scuffle  of  drying  leaves  across  the  roof  and 
the  drone  of  the  evening  wind  among  the 
rafters.  In  its  unfamiliar  setting  the  old  fur- 
niture looked  pathetically  out  of  place.    One 


ANCESTORS  AND  PRATHER      107 

brief  glance  told  Prather  the  whole  story.  He 
tiptoed  down  the  stairs  in  clumsy  haste. 

That  evening  he  glanced  guilelessly  over  his 
teacup.  "By  the  way,"  said  Prather,  off- 
handedly, "Mrs.  Deacon  Tibbits  told  me  to  be 
sure  to  remind  you  of  the  missionary  meeting 
in  the  vestry  this  evening." 

Paula  sighed  gently.  "It's  on  Torquay. 
Somehow  I  can't  seem  to  get  up  much  interest 
in  Torquay,"  she  confessed ;  "it  seems  like  such 
a  dretful  ways  off.  But  I  ought  to  go,  seein' 
it's  Mrs.  Tibbits'  night  to  lead." 

It  was  late  when  the  missionary  society  sepa- 
rated with  a  gentle  clatter  of  conversation  at 
the  church  door.  Paula  hurried  along  the  side- 
walk, bending  against  the  sturdy  wind  that 
whirled  the  gnomelike  leaves,  brown,  wrinkled, 
in  gusty  flight  across  her  path.  Over  the 
church  yard  a  half-erased,  blurry  moon 
smeared  across  by  thin  clouds  glowed  sulkily. 
The  warm  shine  of  the  windows  along  the 
street  cast  cheery  little  flickers  of  home  into 
the  lonely  night — a  sudden  need  of  Prather 
sent  Paula's  feet  hurrying  up  the  path.  In  the 
lighted  square  of  the  parlor  door,  she  paused 
amazed.  About  the  room  in  their  old  places 
stood  the  stately  dignity  of  Chippendale  chair 


108  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

and  mahogany  table,  familiar,  friendly,  and 
among  them  Prather,  shirt-sleeved  and  warm, 
smiling  at  her  over  his  folded  arms. 

"Prather!"  cried  Paula,  inadequately — it 
was  a  little  syllable  of  joy. 

"Eather  an  improvement — eh,  honey?"  Pra- 
ther nodded.  He  pointed  a  rueful  finger  at 
the  wall.  "But  I  managed  to  scrape  off  a  good 
bit  of  the  wall  paper  with  a  corner  of  the  high- 
boy." 

Paula  surveyed  the  torn  place,  head  thought- 
fully atilt.  The  pleasant  gleam  of  planning 
crept  into  her  eyes. 

"I  believe  Aunt  Em'line  will  just  about  cover 
it!"  cried  Paula,  joyously.  "It'll  seem  more 
like  home,  Prather,  to  have  Aunt  Em'line 
covering  a  spot!" 


LATE  BLOOMING 


LATE  BLOOMING 

THE  funeral  was  over.  Shady  Valley  had 
put  on  its  Sunday-an'-funeral  best  with 
decorous  solemnity  and  followed  Lizzie  May- 
fair's  plain,  grimly  unadorned  casket  to  its 
last  resting  place — "If  Lizzie  could  rest  any- 
wheres," as  Mrs.  Bisbee  sighed,  doubtfully,  on 
the  way  home.  Beneath  the  mournful  jet  of 
her  best  bonnet  her  broad,  flabby  pink  face 
settled  into  gossipy,  everyday  curves.  Her 
companion,  Paula  McDowell,  nodded  seri- 
ously. 

"Yes,  poor  Lizzie  was  a  great  hand  to  fret 
an'  fuss  over  her  work,"  she  said.  Her  gentle 
eyes  were  pitying.  "She  never  seemed  to  take 
any  real  comfort  in  livin';  I  only  hope  she'll 
like  dyin'  better.  Somehow,  she  always  seemed 
to  me  as  if  somethin'  was  driving  her — some- 
thin'  inside.  That's  the  way  her  face  ust  t' 
look — drove" 

"Well,  land  knows  there  warn't  no  reason 
for  it,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Bisbee,  tartly,  "well  off  as 
111 


112  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Lizzie  Mayfair  was  all  her  life.  I  s'pose  old 
Judge  Mayfair  must  of  left  her  all  of  ten  thou- 
sand dollars — though  nobody  ever  found  out 
jest  how  much.  Lizzie  was  dretful  close- 
mouthed  about  her  affairs.  Anyhow,  I  guess 
the  girls  is  well  fixed.  An'  they  deserve  it  too. 
Not  to  be  hard  on  the  dead,  Lizzie  Mayfair 
was  a  stern  woman.  She  didn't  make  life  any 
too  easy  for  'em." 

"She  was  a  good  woman,"  said  Paula,  justly, 
"but  I  don't  believe  anybody  ever  saw  her 
smile.  I've  always  held  smilin'  was  kind  o' 
oilin'  the  wheels  of  life  to  keep  'em  from 
raspin'.  But  she  was  a  good  woman,  Lizzie 
was." 

"O,  yes,  she  was  good,"  agreed  Mrs.  Bisbee, 
dryly.  "She  never  broke  any  o'  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments that  I  know  of,  nor  nothin'." 

In  the  hushed  Mayfair  parlor  the  "girls" — 
Lizzie  and  Kitty — faced  each  other  solemnly. 
Both  faded  faces  looked  oddly  startled  and 
strained  above  the  harsh  black  of  their  shabby 
gowns.  Yet,  though  sisterly  alike,  the  two 
faces  were  different.  Kitty's  thin  blond  hair 
was  arranged  with  a  looseness  denied  to  the 
older  sister's  prim  gray  braids.  There  was  a 
wistful  echo  of  youth  about  her  like  that  of  a 


LATE  BLOOMING  113 

frail  spring  flower  that  has  budded  late  in  the 
fall.  She  was  even  pretty  in  a  dim,  frightened 
way,  though  just  now  her  cheeks  were  drained 
of  color  and  her  childish  chin  quivering.  Her 
sister  regarded  her  grimly,  black  gloved  fingers 
clutching  the  rusty  key  that  had  just  locked 
their  aunt  away  behind  the  iron  palings  guard- 
ing the  Mayfair  lot. 

"What  you  crying  about,  Kitty?"  she  asked, 
dryly.  There  was  no  softening  of  her  voice 
to  the  somber  level  of  the  occasion.  Her  light- 
blue  eyes  were  bright  and  tearless.  "I  don't 
see's  we've  got  any  call  to  cry,  you'n'  me." 

"O,  Lizzie,"  quavered  Kitty.  She  rummaged 
in  her  bag  and  drew  out  a  coarse  folded  hand- 
kerchief, which  she  pressed  to  her  eyes.  "It 
don't  seem  right  not  to — Aunt  Lizzie's  dead — 
O,  dear !  O,  dear !  I  s'pose  I'm  dretful  wicked 
not  to  want  to  cry  more'n  I  do !" 

"We  don't  cry  in  this  world  for  folks  we've 
never  loved,"  said  Lizzie,  coolly.  She  took  off 
her  hat  and  coat  with  fierce  little  jerks.  "Aunt 
Lizzie  didn't  want  us  to  love  her.  We'd  'a' 
done  it  fast  enough — lonesome  little  tikes  we 
was  when  we  came  here!  Land  a  livin',  we 
tried  to  love  her,  but  it  warn't  no  use !  I  give 
up  years  ago.  She  did  her  Bible  duty  by  us,  and 


114  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

we  did  ourn  by  her.  I  guess  the  account  evens 
up  well  'nough.    We  don't  owe  her  no  tears." 

"O  dear !  O  dear !"  fluttered  Kitty,  mopping 
her  eyes.  "O,  Lizzie,  warn't  it  a  sort  o'  lone- 
some funeral?  I  don't  mean  folks  didn't  come 
out,  but  seem's  though  they  had  all  left  their 
hearts  to  home.  An'  o'  course,  bein'  fall  so, 
there  weren't  hardly  any  flowers  to  speak  of, 
an'  flowers  make  a  funeral  so  much  cheerf uller 
— O,  Lizzie,  what  are  you  doin'?" 

Aghast,  she  watched  the  older  w^oman  as  she 
opened  the  blinds  and  flung  the  windows  wide. 
A  watery  flood  of  pale  autumn  sunshine 
wrought  the  pattern  of  the  lilac  bush  outside 
on  the  bright  colors  of  the  body  Brussels.  The 
crisp  October  air  breezed  into  the  stale  room 
with  an  odd  effect  of  laughing.  Kitty  shivered 
under  her  sister's  defiant  gaze. 

"She — she  wouldn't  have  liked  it,'*  she  mur- 
mured, helplessly.  "She  was  awful  choice  of 
that  carpet — ^it'll  get  all  faded  with  the  sun 
on  it  so.  O,  Lizzie,  hadn't  you  better  shut 
them  blinds?" 

"No,  I  hadn't,"  said  Lizzie  Mayfair,  hardly. 
She  drew  a  long  gloating  breath.  "Kitty,  this 
is  the  first  breath  o'  freedom  we've  drawed 
for  twenty-eight  years.     We've  been  livin'  in 


LATE  BLOOMING  115 

the  dark,  shet  away  from  the  good  clean  air 
an'  sunshine  and  human  bein's,  screwed  down 
an'  afraid  to  call  our  soul  our  own.  We  ain't 
never  had  no  youngish  times,  nor  pretty 
clothes,  nor — beaux!" 

The  word  came  out  harshly  as  though  torn 
from  her  New  England  reticence.  A  tide  of 
red  mounted  to  Kitty's  thin  ash-colored  hair. 
In  her  heart  a  pitiful,  long-slumbering  memory 
stirred  from  its  patient,  dutiful  sleep.  Once, 
long  ago,  in  Kitty's  flowering,  there  had  been 
the  promise  of  a  beau.  Aunt  Lizzie  had  driven 
him  away  before  there  had  been  much  to  re- 
member— a  walk  home  from  prayer  meeting 
under  a  long- waned  summer  moon,  a  few  blun- 
dering, boy  words,  and  then  that  dreadful  call 
and  Aunt  Lizzie's  stinging  scorn. 

He  was  the  tenor  in  the  Methodist  choir  now 
— a  thin,  silent,  timid  man  who  did  a  helpless 
bachelor  housekeeping  above  his  carpenter 
shop.  Kitty  had  not  looked  at  him  for  fifteen 
years,  yet  there  was  not  a  clumsy  man-patch 
on  his  shiny  coat  sleeves  she  had  not  seen. 

Lizzie's  sharp  gaze  interpreted  the  blush 
aright. 

"She's  still  rememberin'  Charlie  Hutchins," 
she  thought,  with  a  tightening  of  her  lips. 


116  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"But  I've  got  better  plans  for  her  then  Mm. 
It  warn't  for  nothin'  that  the  new  minister 
come  over  an'  talked  with  us  so  long  after  the 
service.  With  her  hair  crimped  an'  some  new 
clothes — " 

"O,  Lizzie !  Lizzie !"  trembled  Kitty,  aghast 
before  this  upheaval  of  her  world,  "what  you 
goin'  to  do?  You  scare  me  most  to  pieces, 
talkin'  so !" 

"I'm  goin'  to  begin  livin',  an'  so  are  you," 
said  Lizzie.  She  put  out  an  awkward,  tender 
hand  in  shy  caress  on  her  sister's  thin  arm. 
"We're  goin'  to  take  some  o'  the  money  that 
Aunt  Lizzie  hoarded  so  careful  all  her  life, 
an'  buy  us  some  new  clothes — clothes  that 
won't  wear  well,  clothes  that'll  fade,  an'  spot, 
an'  look  pretty  for  a  little  while.  An'  we're 
goin'  to  go  to  church  sociables  an'  fairs  an' 
join  the  Ladies'  Aid.  An'  mebbe — mebbe  we'll 
have  the  new  minister  to  tea!" 

"O,  Lizzie!"  gasped  her  sister  again,  but 
there  was  frightened  admiration  in  her  eyes. 
Rampantly  Lizzie  strode  across  the  room  and 
paused  in  the  doorway. 

"After  supper  we'll  bring  down  the  tin  lock- 
box an'  open  it,"  she  said,  firmly.  "We'll  find 
out  just  how  much  we've  got  an'  where  we 


LATE  BLOOMING  117 

stand.  An'  now  I'm  goin'  to  dish  up  supper, 
an',  Kitty,  I'm  goin'  to  open  a  jar  o'  damson 
preserves !" 

Two  hours  later  the  sisters  faced  each  other 
again  over  a  litter  of  yellowing  papers  and 
musty  deeds ;  both  faces  were  pale.  In  Kitty's 
faded  blue  eyes  was  the  wistful  grief  of  a  child 
from  whom  has  been  snatched  some  promised 
boon.  Across  the  sad  little  silence  ticked  the 
tall  clock,  like  a  grim,  impersonal  voice. 

"That — was  why — she  scrimped,"  it  seemed 
to  say  over  and  over.  "There  wasn't  any  for- 
tune— but  she  didn't — want — folks — to  know." 

"I  suppose  Gran'father  Mayfair  was  un- 
lucky— the  Mayfairs  never  were  any  hands  at 
business,"  said  Lizzie,  drearily,  at  last.  "This 
house  an'  a  thousand  dollars — that's  all  we 
got." 

The  words  trailed.  She  sat  limply  over  the 
wreckage  of  her  plans,  every  thin,  sloping  line 
of  her  sagging  in  defeat.  Then  her  backbone 
stiffened  with  sudden  resolve.  She  looked  at 
her  faded,  frail  sister  and  her  eyes  shone  un- 
dauntedly. 

"It  was  too  late  for  me,  anyways,"  she  de- 
clared, vigorously.  "How'd  I  look  at  my  time 
o'  life,  most  thirty-eight,  riggin'  myself  up  in 


118  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

youngish  togs?  I'd  be  a  sight  for  crows  to 
laugh  at !  But  you're  not  too  old  yet — thirty- 
two  is  young  these  days.  Why,  the  new  minis- 
ter is  all  o'  forty,  an'  I  heard  Mrs.  Bisbee 
speakin'  of  him  as  a  'young  man'  jest  to-day." 
She  brought  it  out  triumphantly.  Kitty 
watched  her  in  pale  bewilderment. 

"O,  Lizzie!"  she  cried,  feebly,  "O,  Lizzie,  I 
don't  know  what  to  make  o'  jou  when  you 
talk  that  way !    What  are  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  that  you  don't  get  cheated 
out  o'  a  little  taste  o'  life  anyhow,"  said  Lizzie, 
fiercely.  "I'm  goin'  to  see  that  you  get  some 
new  gownds  an'  hats  an'  a  pair  o'  high-heeled 
shoes.  You're  goin'  to  places  like  other  folks, 
an'  act  youngish  while  you  got  time." 

"O,  no !  O,  I  couldn't !  O,  what  Avould  you 
do?"  Kitty  wrung  her  hands  helplessly,  know- 
ing even  as  she  did  so  that  Lizzie  would  have 
her  way.  Kitty's  was  a  pale,  swaying  flower 
soul,  blown  about  by  the  wind  of  other  people's 
wills.  "We'd  ought  to  mourn  Aunt  Lizzie;  it 
ain't  decent  not  to — what  would  folks  say?" 

"I'll  do  the  mournin',"  said  her  sister,  de- 
cidedly. "They's  enough  black  clothes  hang- 
ing up  in  the  attic  so's  I  can  mourn  a  good 
long  spell,  an'  mourn  thorough.    But  j'ou  ain't 


LATE  BLOOMING  119 

got  no  time,  Kitty.  You  got  to  start  right  in 
bein'  young.  To-morrow's  Sunday.  You're 
goin'  to  put  your  hair  up  in  curl  papers  this 
livin'  night." 

"O,  I  can't !  I  can't !"  wailed  Kitty.  "Aunt 
Lizzie  didn't  believe  in  crimps.  It  ain't  no 
earthly  use  tryin'  to  make  me  over,  Lizzie ;  I'm 
old  too,  an'  you  can't  make  old  goods  up  in 
new  styles." 

But  under  her  nervous  tears  her  cheeks  had 
taken  on  the  faint  pink  of  a  blush  rose.  Lizzie 
watched  her  proudly.  No  earthly  power  could 
have  Avrung  from  her  the  fact  that  she  thought 
her  sister  pretty — New  England  folks  do  not 
admit  such  things.  There  was  a  kiss  on  her 
lips  but  she  denied  it  sternly. 

"You  do  well  'nough,"  she  said,  shortly, 
with  an  attempt  at  carelessness;  "an',  Kitty, 
I  don't  know  but  what  I'd  join  the  minister's 
Bible  class  if  I  was  you.  He  seems  like  a  dret- 
ful  interestin'-spoken  sort  of  a  man." 

Shady  Valley  accepted  the  divided  mourn- 
ing charitably.  "As  long  as  Lizzie  does  it  so 
thorough" — they  hesitated — "an'  then,  of 
course,  Kitty  is  younger,  an'  young  folks  is 
thoughtless.  We'd  most  forgot  Kitty  was  so 
young,  I  guess.    She  looks  real  pretty  in  that 


120  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

pink  voile,  don't  she?  An'  they  do  say  the  new 
minister — " 

Wilfred  Strong,  the  new  minister,  was,  his 
congregation  said,  "a  real  human  sort  of  a  man 
in  spite  of  his  calling."  Big  of  body  and  mind, 
he  loomed  above  the  tiny  oak  pulpit  in  the 
Baptist  church,  the  center  of  many  girlish 
imaginings.  Shady  Valley  matrons  opined  he 
must  have  been  disappointed  in  love  early  in 
life;  Shady  Valley  maids  wondered  roman- 
tically who  could  have  refused  such  handsome 
dark  eyes  and  hair;  Lizzie  Mayfair  alone 
thought  to  wonder  anxiously  whether  he  wore 
thick  enough  flannels  this  sharp  weather,  and 
whether  he  kept  camomile  tea  handy  in  case 
of  colds.  In  her  rusty,  out-of-date  black  silks 
she  sat  in  the  Mayfair  pew  beside  the  rejuve- 
nated Kitty,  and  watched  the  fine  expressive 
face  of  the  minister  turn  more  and  more  often 
in  their  direction.  Kitty,  her  light  hair  fluffed 
about  her  face,  a  new  shy  radiance  of  color 
in  her  cheeks,  was  almost  a  girl  in  her  un- 
wonted daintiness  of  attire.  It  made  Lizzie 
feel  oddly  old  and  faded  to  look  at  her. 

"He's  takin'  notice,"  she  told  herself,  when 
one  Sunday  Wilfred  had  walked  home  with 
them  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  chatting, 


LATE  BLOOMING  121 

framed  in  the  porch  pillars  for  all  the  congre- 
gation to  see,  "an'  I  don't  know  why  he 
shouldn't — Kitty  is  a  picture  in  that  blue  silk. 
It  sets  her  off  real  well.  That  used  to  be  my 
color — jest  that  same  shade  o'  blue — robin's 
egg,  they  used  to  call  it.    I  wonder — " 

Sudden  red  drowned  her  cheeks.  She  ran 
away  from  the  thought  in  a  panic  of  haste. 
But  in  the  dark  of  night  it  returned  to  stand 
beside  her  bed  and  whisper  unkind  things. 

"I  guess  you've  forgot  how  old  you  are, 
haven't  you?"  jeered  the  Thought;  "I  guess 
maybe  you'd  better  get  up  an'  light  the  lamp 
an'  look  in  the  glass." 

Poor  Lizzie  Mayfair,  lying  wakeful  on  her 
hard  goose-feather  pillows,  put  up  sad  fingers 
to  her  face  and  hair. 

"O,  I  don't  need  to  see,"  she  said ;  "I  can  feel 
the  gray  an'  the  wrinkles,  I  can  feel  every  one 
of  the  thirty-seven,  most  thirty-eight,  years, 
plain  as  plain.  Men  folks  like  young  things, 
an'  I'm  old.  But  tain't  too  late  for  Kitty.  I'd 
ought  to  be  thankful  for  that.  I'd  ought  to  be 
glad  the  minister  looks  at  her — an'  I  am  glad 
too!"  she  flung  down  her  little  gauntlet  of 
defiance  at  the  foot  of  the  unkindly  Thought, 
but  it  lingered  still. 


122  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Maybe  you're  glad  you've  fallen  in  love 
with  your  sister's  beau,"  it  jeered,  impishly; 
"maybe  you're  glad  of  that — huh  I" 

Lizzie  Mayfair,  thirty-seven,  unlovely,  un- 
loved, and  lovable,  sat  up  in  bed  and  faced 
herself  unashamed. 

"Maybe  I  am  glad  o'  that  too!"  she  said, 
softly.  There  was  something  in  her  face,  in 
her  voice  that  mothers  have.  At  that  moment 
she  too  was  young  and  pretty,  but  she  did  not 
know  that.  "It  won't  hurt  anybody,  my  carin' 
for  him,  an'  it's  something  to  have.  Nobody'll 
ever  know  but  me,  an'  I'll  jest  take  it  out  o' 
my  heart  now  and  then  an'  look  at  it,  an'  put 
it  back  again.  I  ought  to  thank  the  Lord  that 
he's  given  me  something  to  grow  old  on." 

She  slid  out  of  bed  and  knelt  down  in  her 
scanty  unbleached  cotton  gown,  but  the  prayer 
that  faltered  at  last  from  her  lips  was  not  for 
herself,  but  for  Kitty,  that  she  might  find  her 
happiness  before  it  was  too  late. 

As  the  days  passed  by  it  seemed  to  Lizzie's 
anxious  gaze  that  her  prayer  was  being  an- 
swered. Wilfred  Strong  came  to  call,  then 
again,  then  many  times,  and  Kitty's  faded 
prettiness  blossomed  and  glowed  like  a  starved 
plant  blooming  at  last  under  the  warm  knowl- 


LATE  BLOOMING  123 

edge  of  love.  But  in  the  minister's  presence 
she  sat  silent  with  shy  eyes  and  restless  hands. 

"Land!  I'm  all  out  o'  patience  with  her," 
fretted  her  sister  one  evening  after  he  had  left. 
"I'd  go  out  an'  leave  'em  alone,  natural  an' 
proper,  but  she  wouldn't  open  her  mouth  if 
I  did.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her !  I've 
a  good  notion  to  give  her  a  piece  o'  my  mind !" 

She  crossed  the  hall  on  impulse  and  pushed 
open  the  door  of  Kitty's  room.  In  the  moon- 
lit square  of  the  window  knelt  her  sister,  look- 
ing away  into  the  soft  sky  with  a  clear  light 
on  her  lifted  face  that  was  not  born  of  the 
moon.  As  the  door  creaked  she  sprang  up 
guiltily  and  faced  Lizzie  with  a  piteous  blush. 

"Land!  Kitty,  you'll  catch  your  death  in 
this  night  air  I"  bustled  the  older  woman,  mak- 
ing a  great  show  of  shutting  the  window,  in 
tender  shame  of  the  revelation  of  Kitty's  face. 
Yet  Duty  spurred  her  to  speak  her  mind  out. 
Grimly  she  faced  her  sister. 

"Kitty  Mayfair,  I  'spose  you  know  that  the 
minister  comes  here  to  see  you,  don't  you?"  she 
said.  "Why  don't  you  speak  up  an'  do  some 
of  the  entertainin'  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"O,  Lizzie!"  quivered  Kitty,  crimson,  "O, 
Lizzie !    Don't  speak  so !" 


124  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  when  a  man's 
in  love,  even  if  I  be  an  old  maid?"  Lizzie's 
tone  was  dry  and  hard,  much  as  she  wished 
it  to  be  tender.  "Why  do  you  suppose  he  calls 
time  an'  again?  Why  do  you  suppose  he  walks 
home  with  us  after  meetin'  in  front  of  all  the 
folks,  an'  preaches  straight  to  our  pew?  He'd 
speak  out  in  a  minute  if  you  gave  him  the  least 
bit  o'  encouragement,  but  there  you  set  an' 
let  me  do  the  talkin'!  I  haven't  a  mite  o' 
patience  with  sech  doin's,  not  a  mite. 
Modesty's  all  right,  but  there  ain't  no  call  to 
be  too  modest !" 

"O,  Lizzie,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so!" 
begged  Kitty,  tremulously.  "Do  you  really 
think — O  dear  me !  I — you  don't  understand  I" 

"I  understand  well  'nough,"  said  Lizzie, 
dryly,  tightening  her  lips  across  k  secret  stab 
of  pain.  "Now,  to-morrow  week  we're  goin' 
to  have  the  minister  to  tea,  an'  afterward 
you're  goin'  to  set  in  the  parlor  with  him  while 
I  do  the  reddin'  up.  Don't  you  argue  with 
me,  Kitty  Mayfair.  I  guess  I  know  what  I'm 
doin'!" 

A  week  later  she  was  not  so  certain.  In  her 
rusty  black  best  she  stood  in  Kitty's  empty 
room  and  read  and  reread  endlessly  the  note 


LATE  BLOOMING  125 

she  had  found  on  the  bureau,  under  the 
camphor  bottle. 

"Dear  Lizzie/'  it  began  in  a  little  tremble 
of  ink,  "I  don't  know  what  you're  going  to  say 
to  me,  but  I  just  couldn't  marry  the  minister. 
It's  Charlie  Hutchins — it  always  was  Charlie, 
sister — I  don't  know  why,  but  it  was.  I  s'pose 
you'll  think  I'm  awful  ungrateful,  an'  I  guess 
I  am,  but  I  knew  if  I  stayed  I'd  do  as  you 
wanted  I  should — O,  Lizzie !  I'm  scairt  to  write 
it — but  Charlie  and  me  are  going  to  run  away 
and  get  married,  I've  always  hankered  to  run 
away  to  get  married — I  s'pose  that's  silly  too. 
I  never  did  anything  you  didn't  want  me  to 
afore — O,  Lizzie,  won't  you  please  forgive  me? 
Kitty." 

"P.  S.  I've  left  the  blue  dress  hanging  in 
my  closet — it  won't  have  to  be  much  changed 
for  you,  and  it's  just  the  color  you'd  ought  to 
wear.  Lizzie,  I  don't  think  thirty-seven  is  so 
awful  old. 

"P.  S.  S.  Somehow  I  don't  believe  the 
minister  felt  like  you  thought  he  did — it  didn't 
seem  so  to  me." 

"P.  S.  S.  S.  O,  Lizzie !  Lizzie !  Is  it  wicked 
for  me  to  be  so  happy,  do  you  suppose?" 

The  slip  of  paper  fluttered  from  Lizzie's 


126  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

nerveless  fingers  to  the  rug,  as  the  front  door 
bell  pealed  its  summons  through  the  silent 
house.    She  drew  a  long  quivering  breath. 

"The  minister!"  she  gasped.  "O,  what'll  I 
say  to  him?    What  will  I  say?" 

Wilfred  Strong  was  genuinely  startled  at 
the  tragic  little  figure  that  trembled  in  the 
doorway  before  him.  His  good,  gentle  face 
took  on  lines  of  concern. 

"Why — why,  Miss  Lizzie!"  he  cried,  "you 
look — I  trust  you  are  not  ill?" 

"No,  I'm  well,  'nough,"  said  Lizzie  mth  dry 
tongue.  "Come  in,  Mr.  Strong.  I've  got  to 
break  it  to  you  best  I  can,  though  I'd  rather 
take  a  sound  whippin'.  Something's  hap- 
pened— something  dretful !" 

In  the  front  parlor  she  faced  him,  her  own 
pain  forgotten  in  the  hurt  of  giving  him  pain. 

"Kitty's  gone!"  she  said,  breathlessly. 
"She's  run  away  to  marry  Charlie  Hutchins. 
I  never  guessed !  I  never  even  dreamed  o'  sech 
a  thing." 

"I  guessed  it  long  ago,"  smiled  the  minister. 
"The  wind  had  been  blowing  all  the  straws  in 
that  direction.  They  both  belonged  to  my 
Bible  class,  you  know."  He  looked  at  Lizzie's 
white,   startled   face  and   his   own   suddenly 


LATE  BLOOMING  127 

sobered.  "Poor  Miss  Lizzie  I"  he  said,  softly. 
He  came  toward  her  across  the  fading  Brus- 
sels. "I  suppose  it  is  a  great  shock  to  you. 
You  cared  so  deeply  for  your  sister — I 
watched  your  devotion  to  her  and  marveled. 
In  my  pleasure  at  Miss  Kitty's  happiness  I 
was  forgetting  your  loss."' 

"But — but  you're  ylad  she's  married? — you 
— you — don't — care?"  gasped  Lizzie.  Her  be- 
wildered eyes  seeking  his  face,  read  there,  not 
grief  or  disappointment  but  a  something  that 
made  her  heart  trip  strangely  in  the  beating. 
In  a  panic  she  hurried  on :  "I — you  came — so 
often — she  was  so  pretty — I  thought — " 

"You  thought  that  perhaps  I  cared  for  herf" 
asked  the  minister,  gently;  he  came  close  to 
Lizzie  and  put  both  hands  over  her  cold  trem- 
bling ones  in  a  strong  clasp.  "Why,  you  dear 
blind  woman,  you!  Look  at  me!  Don't  you 
know?" 

Her  hands  went  up  in  a  pitiful  gesture 
touching  her  graying  hair. 

"Not — not  me?"  whispered  Lizzie  Mayfair, 
incredulous  before  the  wonder  of  it.  "I'm  so 
— old.    You  couldn't  mean — mef" 

"Ah,  but  I  do  mean  you,  you  blessed,  self- 
sacrificing,  wonderful  woman!"  cried  Wilfred 


128  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Strong.     "You  old?     Nonsense!     You're  the 
youngest  woman  I  know !" 

And  with  his  kiss  on  her  lips  the  starved 
heart  of  Lizzie  Mayfair  stirred  to  life  and  put 
forth  springtide  leaves  and  bloom. 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING 

SARAH-ANN  BIDDLE— she  that  was  a 
Blynn — was  dying.  Shady  Valley  put  it 
baldly  thus,  without  its  usual  kindly  softening 
of  the  phrase  into  "passing  away"  or  "going 
into  a  decline."  There  was  nothing  softened 
or  indefinite  about  Sarah-Ann  Biddle,  unless 
it  were  her  husband  Albion,  who  was,  as  Mrs. 
Tucker,  the  postmistress,  said,  "too  meechin' 
and  pindlin'-minded  to  cast  a  real  healthy 
shadder." 

No  one  had  ever  dreamed  of  shortening 
Sarah-Ann  to  Sally,  or  of  leaving  off  the  Ann. 
Her  scanty  drab  hair  had  never  been  eked 
out  with  a  switch,  nor  her  serviceable  black 
bombazines  adorned  with  the  weakly  feminine 
ornaments  of  fancy  buttons  or  lace  frills.  She 
was  simply  Sarah-Ann  Biddle — middle-aged, 
uncomely,  plain  prose  from  head  to  foot.  And 
now  Sarah-Ann  Biddle  was  dying. 

"An'  if  Sairyann  makes  up  her  mind  to  die, 
she's  goin'  to  die,  Dr.  Jonas  or  no  Dr.  Jonas," 
sighed  Mrs.  Bisbee,  her  broad,  pleasant  face 
131 


132  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

taking  on  its  mournful  Sunday  lines  as  it 
nodded  through  the  square  post  office  window. 
"She's  the  beatenest  for  makin'  up  her  mind 
an'  keepin'  it  made  up — like  'twas  a  spare 
room  bed  or  somethin'." 

"She's  set,  Sairyann  is,"  agreed  the  post- 
mistress. "I  suppose  you  remember  when  she 
'n'  Albion  went  to  church  Sunday  afternoon, 
don't  you? — or,  yes,  I  guess  'twas  before  your 
time.  Well,  Albion  had  just  bought  a  new 
horse  an'  this  was  the  fust  time  they'd  ever 
drove  him.  About  half  way  to  church,  right 
spang  in  the  middle  o'  Squire  Maltby's  hill,  he 
began  to  balk.  Albion  he  tried  every  way  he 
knew  to  make  him  start  up ;  he'd  left  the  whip 
home,  'count  o'  its  bein'  the  Lord's  Day,  but 
he  slapped  the  reins,  an'  coaxed  an'  argued, 
an'  the  horse  jest  stood  stock  still  in  the 
middle  o'  the  road.  Pa  an'  Ma  Potts  passed 
'em  standin'  there,  an'  drew  up  alongside. 

"  'Don't  look's  though  you'd  git  to  church 
to-day — not  behind  that  critter,'  Pa  Potts  says, 
jokin',  like.  But  Sairyann  never  turned  a 
hair. 

"  'I've  set  out  for  church,  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
church,'  she  says,  real  firm.  'Albion,  you  give 
me  the  reins/ 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING  133 

"About  an  hour  an'  a  half  later,  sure  enough, 
that  horse  trotted  into  the  churchyard,  meek 
as  Moses,  all  the  gimp  taken  out  o'  him.  The 
congregation  was  just  comin'  out,  but  that 
didn't  hender  Sairyann  none.  She  tied  the  rig 
up  in  the  shed  and  marched  up  the  steps  into 
the  church,  Albion  follerin'  along  behind, 
lookin'  kind  o'  frightened,  but  sayin'  nothin', 
as  usual. 

"  'I  started  out  to  church  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
church,'  Sairyann  told  folks.  An,'  sure 
enough,  she  an'  Albion  set  there  in  that  empty 
church  one  mortal  hour  by  the  clock,  then 
come  out,  unhitched,  an'  drove  home.  Yes, 
Sairyann  is  set,  there's  no  gettin'  around  it." 

"Here's  Albion  now."  Mrs.  Bisbee  pointed 
a  black  silk  forefinger.  "I  wonder  what  he'll 
do  without  Sairyann.  I've  always  said  men 
folks  was  all  helpless,  but  Albion  Biddle  is  the 
helplessest  one  I've  ever  set  eyes  on." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker.  "Afore  he  was 
married  he  was  allers  the  Widder  Biddle's  Al, 
an'  sence  he's  been  married  he's  been  Sairy- 
ann's  husband.  I  don't  know  what  he'd  do  if 
he  had  to  stand  on  his  own  feet  an'  be  jest 
Albion  Biddle,  I  declare  I  don't." 

The  post  office  door  opened  apologetically 


134  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

and  Sairyann's  husband  slid  his  spare  form 
through  as  narrow  a  space  as  possible.  He 
was  a  dim,  vague  man  with  an  unfinished  look 
about  his  chin  and  forehead,  and  a  habit  of 
sidling  up  to  objects — "walking  on  the  bias" 
Abby  Bliss,  the  dressmaker,  called  it.  Now 
he  approached  the  post  boxes  circuitously  by 
way  of  the  cracker  barrel.  He  carried  two 
letters  in  his  hand,  which  he  deposited  with 
anxious  care  in  the  mail  slit. 

"How's  Sairyann  to-day,  Al?"  The  postmis- 
tress peered  over  benevolent  spectacles.  "She'd 
ought  to  be  doin'  better  this  sightly  weather." 

"She  ain't  though,"  said  Sairyann's  hus- 
band, heavily.  Under  the  straggling  whiskers 
his  irresolute  chin  shook.  "She  jest  lies  there 
gittiu'  weaker  an'  weaker  right  along.  She 
don't  eat  nothin'  hardly,  an'  us  with  that  big 
spring  killin'  done  an'  all.  Dr.  Jonas  says  he 
don't  give  much  hope  'less  she'll  rouse  herself 
an'  try  t'  git  well." 

"I  suppose  you're  writin'  to  her  folks  over 
Greenfield  way?"  asked  Mrs.  Bisbee,  sympa- 
thetically. Sairyann's  husband  looked  almost 
frightened. 

"Yes,  I  be.  I  didn't  tell  her  what  I  was  doin' 
neither !"    His  own  daring  dismayed  him.    "I 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING  135 

figured  out  that  they'd  ought  to  hear  how  bad 
off  she  was — her  sister  Lyddy  and  her  Aunt 
Blynn,  anyhow — but  I  dunno — Sairyann 
didn't  say  t'  tell  'em." 

As  he  jogged  homeward,  his  errands  done, 
Albion  Biddle's  doubts  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
course  grew.  He  knew  by  heart  Sairyann's 
opinion  of  her  relatives.  Hadn't  she  told  him 
over  and  over  that  sister  Lyddy  Avas  slack  and 
Cousin  Essie  queer,  and  Aunt  Blynn  too  fond 
of  her  own  way?  Maybe  their  appearance 
would  throw  Sairyann  into  a  spell!  His 
doubts  and  dismay  accompanied  him  into  the 
barn,  dogged  his  slow  unharnessing,  and 
trooped  with  him  across  the  yard  into  the 
kitchen.  The  faint  hope  that  his  wife  might 
be  asleep  was  dispelled  by  her  shrill  nervous 
voice  from  the  bedroom : 

"Albion!  Albion  Biddle!  You  come  right 
in  here !" 

Sarah-Ann  lay  in  a  gaunt  rigid  line  of 
counterpane  in  the  center  of  the  four-poster 
bed.  Stiff  goose-feather  pillows  bolstered  her 
gray  head  at  a  sharp  angle.  There  were  no 
concessions  to  ease  or  grace  in  the  bare  little 
room.  Sarah- Ann  Biddle  would  not  allow  her- 
self even  to  die  comfortably.    She  turned  her 


136  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

head  now  sharply  on  the  pillows  toward  her 
husband. 

"Land  a  massy,  if  you  ain't  slower  'n  cold 
molasses,  Albion  Biddle,"  she  complained. 
"Seem's  if  I  sh'd  go  wild  lyin'  here  listenin'  to 
the  clock  tickin',  waitin'  for  you  to  git  home, 
and  knowin'  everything's  goin'  to  rack  and 
ruin  in  the  house.  What  you  got  there  in  that 
package?" 

Albion  looked  apologetically  at  her. 

"Jest  some  oranges  an'  a  few  little  fixin's 
from  the  store,  Sairyann,"  he  said.  "Dr.  Jonas 
wants  you  should  eat  a  little  an'  git  up  some 
strength.    I  didn't  git  much  of  anythin'." 

"Albion  Biddle,  what  use  has  a  dyin'  woman 
got  f'r  oranges,  I'd  like  to  know?"  Sarah-Ann 
snapped.  "Ain't  we  got  expenses  enough 
comin'  on  without  wastin'  our  money  on  sech 
doin's?  Funerals  are  expensive.  I  allers 
planned  to  hev  solid  silver  trimmings  to  my 
casket,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  hev  'em !" 

"O,  Sairyann,  don't  talk  like  that — it  ain't 
right.  You  ain't  goin'  to  die!"  Albion  went 
crookedly  to  the  bedside.  His  light-blue  eyes 
watered  as  he  patted  her  hand.  "Dr.  Jonas, 
he  says  there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
git  well — he  says — " 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING  137 

"Dr.  Jonas,  nor  nobody  else  can't  hender  the 
will  o'  the  Lord,  Albion,"  Sarah-Ann  said, 
solemnly.  "My  time  has  come.  I  ain't  got  no 
more  strength  than  a  new-born  babe.  I  ain't 
complainin',  though  I'd  like  to  have  lived 
through  hayin' — you  allers  forget  to  keep  a 
wet  pad  in  your  hat,  Albion,  an'  like  as  not 
you'll  git  a  sunstroke.  Mother,  she  went  just 
this  way,  and  Granma  Haslaw  before  her — 
took  to  their  beds  and  in  a  couple  o'  weeks  they 
was  gone.  No,  Albion,  it's  wrong  to  put  an 
orange  ag'in'  the  wdll  o'  God." 

Albion  tiptoed  heavily  into  the  kitchen  and 
set  out  a  cheerless  lunch  of  cold  beans  and 
bread  on  the  kitchen  table.  He  ate  slowly  with 
long  pauses,  representing  thought,  between 
mouthfuls,  looking  away  out  of  the  window 
across  the  uncut  hay  fields.  The  thought  of 
performing  the  ordinary  duties  of  life  without 
Sarah-Ann  to  keep  him  going  was  appalling, 
and  yet — the  will  o'  God. 

"I'll  ask  the  minister  to  see  her,"  resolved 
Albion.  "Seems  like  he'd  know  better  about 
sech  things  than  me." 

But  the  minister  himself  was  helpless  before 
Sarah- Ann's  conviction. 

"Though  I'm  glad  you  happened  in,  Rever- 


138  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

ent  Griscom,"  she  told  him  calmly.  "I've  been 
thinkin'  over  some  o'  the  things  I'd  like  to  hev 
you  put  in  the  funeral  sermon.  I  can't  abide 
the  cut  an'  dried  ones  you  generally  preach. 
You  don't  make  any  difference  between  de- 
parteds at  all." 

So,  instead  of  arguing  with  Sarah- Ann  over 
the  necessity  of  obeying  the  doctor's  orders 
and  making  an  effort  to  get  well,  the  minister 
spent  his  call  making  notes  for  Sarah-Ann's 
funeral  sermon.  But  when  he  rose  to  go  he 
clutched  his  courage  in  his  long  nervous  hands. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Biddle,  I  hope  you  will — er-er" 
— he  had  almost  said  "reconsider" — "will  be — 
er — spared  to  us  for  many  years  of  usefulness. 
I  trust — I  sincerely  trust  you  are  mistaken  as 
to  the  seriousness  of  your  case." 

"Reverent  Griscom,  I'm  not  one  to  shilly- 
shally over  a  job,  and  never  was,"  said  Sarah- 
Ann  Biddle  with  a  sort  of  feeble  ferocity. 
"When  I  make  up  my  mind  to  a  thing  I  don't 
fret  over  it  an'  put  it  off.  If  I'm  goin'  to  die, 
I'd  enough  sight  rather  do  it  my  own  way, 
nice  and  prompt,  and  not  spread  it  out  over 
ten  years  like  Ann  Barrows  over  on  the  cross- 
roads. Good-by,  an'  don't  forget  the  p'ints 
I  want  brought  out  at  the  funeral." 


SAIRYANN\S  DYING  139 

Late  the  next  afternoon  a  surrey  with  three 
occupants  drove  into  the  Biddle  yard.  A  few 
white  Leghorns  scratching  listlessly  among  the 
burdock  were  the  only  signs  of  life  around  the 
place.  Far  down  in  a  potato  field  beyond  the 
barn  a  spot  of  blue  jeans  shirting  located 
Albion  and  his  hoe.  It  was  very  hot.  The  air 
was  steeped  with  the  odor  of  verbena  and  sweet 
peas  from  the  drooping  flower  garden  behind 
the  house. 

"I  declare  if  I  ain't  as  tuckered  as  if  I'd  been 
pullin'  the  surrey  instid  o'  drivin'  it !"  declared 
Mrs.  Lizzie  Blynn,  rubbing  her  florid  face  with 
a  pink-bordered  handkerchief  as  she  jumped 
out  of  the  carriage.  She  was  an  erect,  middle- 
aged  womau  whose  aggressive  spine  seemed  to 
spring  back  to  perpendicular  whenever  she 
stooped,  as  she  did  now  to  fasten  the  horse  to 
the  porch  palings.  The  other  two  descended 
more  slowly.  Ljddy,  Sarah-Ann's  sister,  was  a 
heavy,  flabby  woman  in  an  untidy  old  black 
silk  with  a  rip  in  one  elbow  which  she  was  con- 
tinually attempting  to  hide.  Cousin  Essie  was 
thin  and  bonily  coquettish  in  a  pink-figured 
lawn,  trimmed  defiantly  with  pink  ribbon 
bows.  She  held  the  skirt  tenderly  away  from 
contact  with  the  wheel  as  she  clambered  down. 


140  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"My  goodness,  ef  you  ain't  got  your  skirt 
all  over  dust,  Lyddy!"  she  tittered  in  a  high- 
pitched  voice.  "Here,  stand  still  an'  let  me 
brush  it  off." 

"It  don't  matter,"  expostulated  Lydia 
feebly,  but  she  stood  still  nevertheless.  "I  only 
wore  it  out  of  respect.  I  s'pose  I'll  hev  to  git 
me  a  new  one  made  up  for  the  funeral ;  Sairy- 
ann's  the  only  sister  I've  got  in  the  world." 

"Milk  pans  not  scoured!"  sniffed  Mrs. 
Blynn,  drawing  her  finger  across  the  surface 
of  one  experimentally.  "If  men  folks  aren't 
the  slackest !    Well,  girls,  we'll  walk  right  in." 

In  the  bare  bedroom  Sarah-Ann  sat  up  in 
bed  with  a  sudden  nervous  jerk.  Her  face 
with  its  frame  of  thin  gray  hair  looked  oddly 
pinched  and  small  above  the  flat  collar  of  her 
unbleached  cotton  gown.  She  glanced  swiftly 
about  the  room. 

"Company,  an'  everythin'  dusty  'nuff  to 
write  your  name  on,"  she  thought,  bitterly. 
"Now — who — ^it  ain't — ^yes,  'tis  too.  It's  the 
Greenfield  folks.  I'd  know  Essie's  giggle  any- 
wheres." 

"Sairyann !    Sairyann !" 

"Well,  I'm  here."  The  sick  woman's  tone 
was  ungracious;  she  lay  grimly  back  on  the 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING  141 

pillows,  pulling  the  quilt  up  under  her  chin. 
"I  suppose  you  may  as  well  come  in,  now 
you're  here." 

The  visitors  filed  into  the  bedroom,  filling  it. 

"O,  Sairyann,"  wept  Lydia,  "why  didn't  you 
let  us  know  before?  An'  me  the  only  livin' 
sister  you  got  in  the  world !" 

"Well,  niece,  how  air  you?"  Mrs.  Blynn 
went  briskly  to  the  window  and  opened  it  with 
a  jerk.  "Land  a-livin'!  I  sh'd  think  you'd 
smother  in  here." 

"The  flies'll  git  in,"  protested  Sarah-Ann, 
feebly.  "I  can't  abide  to  hev  'em  'round 
spottin'  up  the  paper." 

"My,  you're  lookin'  awful  bad,  Sairyann," 
commiserated  Cousin  Essie.  She  gave  a  com- 
placent glance  at  her  resplendent  self  in  the 
bureau  mirror.  "They's  somethin'  sailer  about 
your  skin,  jest  like  your  poor  mother  in  her 
last  sickness.    Don't  you  see  it,  Lyddy?" 

"I'm  goin'  jest  like  her,"  said  Sarah- Ann.  "I 
ain't  much  longer  for  this  world." 

There  was  grudging  pride,  as  of  one  set 
apart,  in  her  tones. 

"Well,  well,  we  must  all  be  prepared,  an' 
keep  our  lamps  trimmed  an'  burnin',"  said 
Mrs.   Blynn,  sighing.     "You've  been  a  good 


142  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Methodist  for  nigh  thirty  years,  Sairyaun,  an' 
I  don't  see  why  you  ain't  as  ready  to  go  as 
most.  I  suppose  I  shall  hev  the  Blynn  tea 
spoons  an'  the  Gran'mother  Ellen  coffeepot, 
when  you're  through  with  'em,  niece?" 

''Why,  Aunt  Hattie!"  interposed  Lydia,  in 
an  injured  tone.  "I  should  think  'twas  only 
right  an'  fittin'  I  sh'd  git  them,  seein'  I'm 
Sairyann's  own  an'  only  sister  an'  you  jest 
married  into  the  Blynns!" 

"I  allers  did  think  my  side  o'  the  family 
ought  to  hev  had  them  spoons,"  said  Cousin 
Essie,  slowly,  "bein'  how  mother  was  the  only 
darter,  an'  silverware  is  woman-fixin's.  How- 
somever,  I  don't  reely  need  'em.  I  guess  I 
got  as  nice  knives  an'  forks  an'  spoons  as  most, 
if  I  do  say  so  who  shouldn't." 

Sarah-Ann  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  then 
shut  it  again.  A  fleck  of  red  snapped  into  her 
hollow  cheeks. 

"Well,  well,  we  can  settle  that  later,"  said 
Mrs.  Blynn,  pacifically.  She  unpinned  her 
straw  hat  and  hung  it  on  the  footpost  of  the 
bed.  "The  thing  f'r  us  to  do  now  is  to  pitch 
right  in  an'  red  things  up.  I'm  goin'  to  roll 
out  a  batch  o'  my  sugar  doughnuts  an'  a  couple 
o'  apple  pies.     I  seen  three-four  bean  cans  on 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING  143 

the  kitchen  table — men  folks  allers  lives  in 
cans  when  they're  put  to  it  to  shift  for  them- 
selves." 

"Albion  can't  tech  a  mouthful  o'  pie,"  pro- 
tested Sarah-Ann,  inwardly,  "an'  doughnuts 
ain't  no  kind  o'  hayin'  vittles."  But  aloud  she 
said  nothing.  She  watched  the  three  women 
bustle  out  in  a  frenzy  of  usefulness,  with  some- 
thing akin  to  resentment  smoldering  in  her 
faded  blue  eyes. 

"Takin'  the  family  spoons  right  out  o'  my 
mouth  afore  I'm  done  with  'em!"  she  mut- 
tered. "They  won't  none  of  'em  set  the  store 
by  them  spoons  that  I  did." 

She  lay  rigidly  on  her  hard  pillows,  listen- 
ing tensely  to  the  sounds  of  redding  up  outside. 
Through  the  open  window  buzzed  a  fly,  then 
another — three.  Sarah-Ann's  agonized  gaze 
followed  them  around  the  room. 

"Them  curtains  that  I  just  done  up!"  she 
fretted,  "Land,  seem's  though  dyin'  wouldn't 
be  so  bad  if  folks  wouldn't  try  to  take  care  o' 
you!  If  it's  Lyddy  sweepin'  the  front  room 
she'll  be  mortal  sure  to  bang  the  broom 
straight  into  the  table  legs — she's  all  elbows 
when  she  gets  holt  of  a  broom,  Lyddy  is — an' 
O  dear  me  suz,  ^tis  Lyddy  too!" 


144  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

She  lifted  her  head  off  the  pillows  to  hear 
better. 

"I  s'pose  nobody'll  mind  if  I  take  the  parlor 
set?"  It  was  Lydia's  voice  lifted  shrilly  above 
the  racking  progress  of  her  broom.  "It  ain't 
much  to  look  at,  but  it'll  furnish  my  front 
room  till  I  can  see  my  way  clear  to  get  me  a 
golden  oak  set.  I'll  hev  the  haircloth  took  off 
an'  Abner  Barrows  '11  do  it  over  in  red  plush 
for  me  reasonable." 

Sarah-Ann  started  up  indignantly — red 
plush!  The  solid  mahogany  sofa  and  chairs 
that  had  been  Ma's  wedding  furnishings  and 
which  she  had  kept  so  choicely  all  these  years. 
She  had  not  even  allowed  Albion  to  sit  on  them 
except  when  the  minister  called.  Why,  Lyddy 
would  have  it  ruined  in  a  week! 

"That'll  look  real  nice,  Lyddy,"  approved 
Mrs.  Blynn.  The  thump  of  a  rolling  pin 
punctuated  the  words.  "I  s'pose  Albion'll  sell 
most  o'  the  things  off  at  auction  an'  move  to 
his  brother's  place  down  in  the  village.  But 
we'd  ought  to  hev  what  we  want  first,  own 
folks  like  we  be.  I  been  thinkin'  I'd  run  up- 
stairs after  I  get  these  pies  in  the  oven  an'  look 
over  the  blankets  an'  comfortables  an'  quilts. 
My  closet  is  gittin'  right  down  low." 


SAIRYANN'S  DYING  145 

Sarah-Ann  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed 
now.  The  red  speck  had  widened  in  her 
cheeks.    She  almost  forgot  she  was  dying. 

"She'll  let  the  moths  git  in!"  she  thought, 
wildly.  "She'll  spile  all  my  quilts — the  Risin' 
Sun  one  that  took  the  prize  at  the  fair,  an' 
the  Crazy  Quilt  I  made  out  o'  Blynn  weddin' 
dresses!  She  shan't  hev  'em!  Land!  What 
be  I  sayin' !  I  hadn't  ought  to  keer  so  much 
for  airthly  things  on  the  brink  o'  the  grave — " 

"Yes,  Albion'll  live  with  his  brother,"  agreed 
Cousin  Essie's  shrill  voice,  "  'less  he  takes  it 
into  his  head  t'  git  married  again !" 

"Land,  Essie,  how  you  do  talk !"  said  Lyddy, 
scandalized.  "An'  poor  Sairyann  not  in  her 
grave  yit !  Still  I  don't  know — Walt  Biddle's 
wife  is  real  sickly — " 

"Albion  ain't  so  old"  commented  Mrs. 
Blynn,  judiciously,  "not  as  men  go.  And  he's 
one  o'  the  helpless  kind  that  show  why  the 
Lord  hed  to  create  women.  But  poor  Sairy- 
ann's  done  for  him  faithful.  I'll  say  that  for 
her,  an'  I  shan't  hev  any  kind  of  patience  with 
him  'less  he  mourns  a  proper  time." 

A  sudden  sound  from  the  bedroom  startled 
them.  It  was  that  of  a  window  slammed  down. 
In    the    doorway,    unexpectedly    appeared   a 


146  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

small  defiant  figure  in  a  scant  white  cotton 
nightgown,  a  blue  checked-gingham  apron  tied 
hastily  around  its  waist. 

"O,  Sairyann !"  gasped  Lydia,  feebly,  "O, 
Sairyann !" 

"I'm  feelin'  some  better,"  said  Sarah-Ann. 
"You  give  me  that  broom,  Lydia  Blynn !"  She 
looked  around  the  old  familiar  room  with 
gloating  eyes,  then  grimly  at  her  startled, 
speechless  relatives.  "I've  put  off  dyin'  a 
spell,"  she  said,  dryly.  "I  guess  I'll  go  on 
takin'  care  o'  the  Blynn  spoons,  an'  Ma's 
parlor  set,  an'  the  weddin'  quilt — an'  Albion  a 
while  longer,  after  all." 


THE  LORD'S  KIND 


THE  LORD'S  KIND 

THE  REV.  NATHAN  GRISCOM  came  up 
the  parsonage  walk,  gaunt  and  tall  of 
figure  in  his  black  ministerial  coat,  with  a 
little  bend  to  his  shoulders,  as  though  some 
invisible  burden  of  discouragement  lay  upon 
them.  The  clear  lamplight,  reaching  warm 
hands  into  the  darkness,  touched  the  care  lines 
in  his  face  with  gentle  fingers.  In  the  peaceful 
little  dining  room  his  wife  Jewel  put  on  cheeri- 
ness  as  a  garment  at  the  sound  of  his  heavy 
step. 

"Poor  Nate!"  For  an  instant  the  brave 
smile  flickered,  then  flashed  on  again  splen- 
didly. "Another  bad  meeting — I  guess  I  know 
that  step.  I'm  glad  I  thought  to  warm  up  the 
oyster  stew;  it's  real  heartening,  oyster  stew 
is—" 

She  bustled  softly  to  the  door  to  meet  him, 

to  take  off  his  shabby  coat  and  smooth  back 

the    thick    gray    lock    that    would    stick    up 

rakishly  above  his  forehead.     The  rebellious 

149 


150  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

lock  gave  Nathan  Griscom's  ascetic  face  the 
odd,  hurt  look  of  a  big,  blundering  boy.  It  was 
the  only  unministerial  thing  about  him,  unless 
it  was  Jewel.  Years  ago  they  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  laugh  a  little  youngly  over  the  joke 
of  her  worldly  name.  With  sudden  swift  wist- 
fulness  she  wondered  whether  it  was  because 
they  were  growing  old  that  they  laughed  so 
seldom  together  now.  Then  resolutely  she 
donned  the  smile  again,  refusing  to  see  the 
trouble  in  his  eyes. 

"I've  got  a  surprise  on  the  oil  stove  a-boil- 
ing !"  she  cried  gayly.  "Isn't  that  a  nice  but- 
tery, pepper-'n'-salty  smell?  Sit  down,  you 
poor  tired  preacher  boy,  you,  and  I'll  bring  you 
something  guaranteed  to  warm  the  cockles  of 
your  soul.    You  just  wait  and  see !" 

She  was  hurrying  kitchenward  in  a  little 
whirl  of  cheeriness,  but  he  drew  her  back. 

"I  don't  want  anything  to  eat,  Jewel,  not 
to-night,"  he  said,  heartsickly,  "not  unless 
you've  got  some  manna  for  my  spirit  a-boiling 
on  the  stove.  Jewel,  Jewel,  how  many  do  you 
suppose  were  at  the  meeting  to-night?  I 
advise  you  to  guess  twelve !" 

He  laughed  harshly,  sinking  into  a  chair  and 
staring  absently  down  at  the  red-checkered 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  151 

tablecloth.  "Twelve!  That's  a  record  night 
even  for  me  I  And  they  were  the  good  old 
standbys.  Nobody  under  sixty-five,  Jewel — 
old  Mrs.  Tucker  and  the  Potts  and  Deacon 
Mayhew  and  widow  Betts,  the  salt  of  the  earth 
that  hasn't  lost  its  savor.  What  need  they  of 
a  minister,  I'd  like  to  know?  O,  no,  I  don't 
mean  that,  of  course,  but  the  others — the  ones 
that  need  the  church  so  bitterly — they  don't 
come." 

"There's  a  moon  to-night,  Nathan;  it's  the 
full  o'  the  moon  and  August.  The  young  folks 
are  all  out  courting  and  walking,  dear,"  she 
comforted  him  gayly.  "Why,  I  remember  a 
full  o'  the  moon  once  w^hen  you  didn't  go  to 
prayer  meeting  yourself,  Nathan  Griscom! 
Don't  you  dare  to  tell  me  you've  forgotten!" 
Guilefully  she  strove  to  lead  him  away  from 
the  thought  of  that  terrible  twelve,  but  he 
would  not  follow. 

"But  where  were  the  rest?"  he  demanded, 
fiercely — "Tom  Jenkins,  that  is  drinking  him- 
self into  the  poorhouse,  and  the  Tuppers  and 
the  Tibbitts  and  all  of  the  others  who  crowded 
the  church  to  hear  my  first  sermon,  and  who 
haven't  crowded  it  since?  They've  been  drop- 
ping out  one  by  one.    It  isn't  the  fault  of  the 


152  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

moon  they  weren't  there  to-night,  is  it?  Whose 
fault  is  it,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"It's  right  in  the  middle  o'  canning  season," 
she  cried,  militantly,  "and  the  men  folks  are 
all  worn  out  with  the  haying.  I  saw  Mrs.  Tib- 
bitts  to-day,  and  she  said  she  would  try  to  get 
to  meeting  if  she  wasn't  too  dead  to  move  one 
foot  after  another — she's  just  put  up  six  dozen 
jars  of  currant  and  raspberry  jelly — " 

"No,  no,  my  dear."  The  minister  shook  his 
head  with  a  sad  smile.  "It  isn't  the  moon,  nor 
the  haying,  nor  the  raspberry  and  currant  jelly 
that's  to  blame  for  my  empty  church — nor  the 
Word  o'  God.  It's  myself.  I  guess  you've 
married  a  failure,  Jewel." 

"Then  I  like  failures !"  she  laughed  to  hide 
her  tears.  With  a  mother  gesture,  as  though 
he  were  little  Honey  Bunch,  she  caught  his 
head  to  her  breast ;  the  hot  feel  of  it  frightened 
her.  "O,  boy  o'  mine,  you've  got  to  stop  worry- 
ing or  you'll  be  sick.  I'll  count  three  and  you 
stop  quick  as  you  can  say  Jack  Robinson — one 
— two — three !" 

The  big  man  got  slowly  to  his  feet,  looking 
down  into  her  sweet  tilted  face.  "How  can  I 
help  worrying.  Jewel?"  he  groaned.  "To  fail 
— and  not  to  know  why — ^It's  maddening  not  to 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  153 

know  what  is  the  matter.  My  sermons  seemed 
to  suit  the  city,  but  Shady  Valley  needs  some- 
thing else — I  don't  know  what  Shady  Valley 
needs.  I  have  tried  to  awaken  them  to  a  sense 
of  their  duty — to  see  the  error  of  their  ways. 
I  have  preached  nothing  unorthodox  or  un- 
doctrinal,  yet  only  those  who  are  too  deaf  to 
hear  me  come  to  church!  And  then  you  say 
not  to  worry,  Jewel." 

"Seem's  though  worrying  was  just  another 
way  of  disbelieving,  Nathan,"  said  his  wife, 
solemnly.  "It's  as  if  you  were  afraid  God 
wouldn't  know  what  to  do.  Now,  I'm  going  to 
put  you  straight  to  bed,  so  you'll  get  a  good 
night's  sleep ;  a  nice  sleep  will  cheer  you  up — 
maybe — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  to-morrow 
morning  you  remembered  there  were  fifteen 
folks  at  the  meeting!  And  then  to-morrow's 
sermon  day." 

In  the  doorway  Nathan  Griscom  turned 
abruptly.  His  good,  worn  face  was  very  stern. 
"You  are  right;  you  are  always  right,  dear," 
he  said.  "I  may  be  an  unworthy  messenger, 
but  as  long  as  I  am  a  minister  of  the  gospel  I 
must  preach  the  fear  of  the  Lord  without 
weakly  laying  down  my  burden.  To-morrow  I 
shall  continue  my  sermon  on  the  Ten  Com- 


154  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

mandments.  'Remember  the  sabbath  day  to 
keep  it  holy,'  that  shall  be  my  text,  Jewel,  and 
if  no  one  else  comes  on  Sunday  to  the  house  of 
the  Lord,  I  shall  preach  before  God  alone." 

Jewel  listened  as  the  big  steps  tiptoed 
clumsily  up  the  stairs,  and  then  in  the  safe 
knowledge  of  aloneness  took  off  the  garment 
of  cheerfulness  and  laid  it  away  for  the  next 
time  of  need.  To  the  eyes  of  her  whimsical 
imagination  it  was  threadbare  and  worn  in 
places. 

"The  fear  of  the  Lord,  Nathan  said,"  she 
murmured,  troubled.  "If  it  were  only  the  pity 
of  the  Lord  and  the  mercy  of  the  Lord  and  the 
tenderness  of  the  Lord  instead  of  the  fear. 
Nathan's  a  sort  of  Old  Testament  preacher, 
but  Shady  Valley  isn't  Sodom  or  Gomorrah. 
It's  just  kind  of  human  and  friendly  and  every- 
day— I  wonder — " 

She  went  about  the  little  house,  fastening 
the  doors,  putting  away  Honey  Bunch's  play- 
things, but  above  the  soft  clatter  of  nightly 
chores  clamored  the  disquieting  new  thought. 
It  seemed  almost  disloyal  to  Nathan  to  think 
it — and  yet — 

"There's  another  commandment — a  New 
Testament  one,"  she  told  herself  shyly — "the 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  155 

one  about  loving  one  another.  I  wish  Nathan 
would  let  me  pick  out  his  texts  for  him !" 

A  hoarse  cough  from  the  room  above  sent 
her  flying  to  the  medicine  closet,  texts  and 
commandments  forgotten. 

"O  dear,"  she  sighed  as  she  reached  a-tiptoe 
for  the  camphor  bottle.  "He  sounds  as  though 
he  were  coming  down  with  one  of  his  grippy 
colds.  When  Nathan  gets  to  worrying  it 
always  settles  on  his  chest.  There's  the  dread- 
fullest  draught  in  the  pulpit  too.  The  church 
needs  to  be  clapboarded.  It's  a  sin  and  a 
shame!    O  dear!" 

It  was  evident  the  next  morning  that 
Nathan  Griscom  would  preach  no  sermon  this 
week  at  least.  His  valiant  attempt  to  rise  and 
dress  sent  him  back  on  his  pillows  in  a  fit  of 
coughing  that  brought  Jewel  to  the  bedside 
"with  an  ultimatum. 

"Not  a  foot  do  you  step  on  the  floor  to-day, 
my  dear,"  she  told  him,  firmly.    "Not  one !" 

"You  talk  as  though  I  were  a  centipede!" 
gasped  Nathan,  weakly  humorous.  He  looked 
up  at  her,  brow  knotted  with  anxiety.  "But 
the  sermon.  It's  Saturday,  sermon  day.  What 
shall  I  do?" 

"You  can  say  it  to  me  and  I'll  write  it 


156  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

down,"  she  told  him,  implacably.  "Deacon 
Mayhew  can  read  it  for  you  to-morrow;  he's 
been  a  minister  himself,  hasn't  he?  Now  I'm 
going  to  beat  you  up  an  egg-nogg — without  the 
nogg — and  you're  going  to  drink  every  last 
drop  of  it  before  you  can  preach  even  to  me !" 

"Ou  tan  dwink  it  out  o'  my  birfday  cup, 
papa-preacher,"  offered  Honey  Bunch  mag- 
nificently, "an'  pwetend  it  was  lemingade  an' 
ice-cweam !" 

So,  propped  on  his  pillows,  the  minister 
gasped  out  his  sermon  between  coughing 
spells,  and  Jewel  took  it  down  faithfully  in 
her  small,  precise  hand.  It  was  a  merciless 
sermon,  full  of  sin  and  punishment  and  wrath 
and  judgment  day.  It  argued  and  threatened 
and  thundered.  Jewel's  pencil  wavered  over 
some  of  its  harsh  phrasings,  but  she  wrote 
them  down  conscientiously. 

"Now  read  me  what  you  have,"  he  directed 
at  its  end.  He  listened  with  grim  appreciation 
to  his  words,  nodding  now  and  then,  with  a 
gesture  of  his  bony  hand. 

"You  took  it  very  nicely,  dearest,"  he  told 
her.  "It  ought  to  be  a — a  warning — don't  you 
think?  If  that  won't  bring  the  people  of  the 
church  back  into  the  fold  I  do  not  know  what 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  157 

will."  He  sighed  wearily  and  turned  over  on 
his  pillow.  When  she  knew  him  to  be  asleep 
Jewel  tip-toed  from  the  room,  carrying  the 
sermon  in  her  hand ;  the  words  of  it  seemed  to 
scorch  her  fingers.  She  laid  it  upon  the  dining 
room  table  and  stood  looking  down  at  it 
thoughtfully  a  long  while. 

"Muzzer!"  whined  Honey  Bunch  presently, 
clutching  her  skirts,  "come  play  wiv  me !  I'se 
lonesum !" 

"Sh-sh,  dear!"  said  Jewel,  gently.  "Daddy 
is  asleep.  I'll  get  you  a  party,  Honey  Bunch 
— cookies  and  milk  and  a  little  weeny  glass  of 
currant  jelly,  and  you  can  invite  Nehemiah 
and  Esther  the  beautiful  queen  and  Job." 

Honey  Bunch's  dolls,  being  ministerial 
dolls,  bore  biblical  names.  The  mother  saw 
the  party  in  full  swing  and  then  returned  to 
the  manuscript  on  the  table.  She  drew  a  long 
slow  breath  of  resolution. 

"If  I'm  doing  wrong  God'll  forgive  me,  be- 
cause I  want  to  do  right  so  hard!"  she  mur- 
mured a  little  whitely.  "But — O — I  don't 
know  as  Nathan  ever  will !" 

Then  with  trembling  courage  she  took  up 
her  pencil,  drew  a  blank  sheet  of  paper  toward 
her  and  began  to  write. 


158         BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"How  did  you  like  the  sermon?"  Shady 
Valley  asked,  bewilderedly,  the  next  afternoon. 
"Sort  of  unexpected,  wasn't  it,  an'  different. 
But  I  declare  I  liked  it  real  well !" 

"There  warn't  s'much  meat  to  it  as  usual," 
Mr.  Tucker  told  his  wife  as  they  walked  home, 
"but  there  was  a  powerful  lot  more  o'  the  milk 
o'  human  kindness  than  Brother  Griscom 
gen'lly  gives  us.  It  didn't  rub  you  the  wrong 
ways,  like  he  does  sometimes." 

Mrs.  Tucker  looked  up  at  her  husband 
soberly.  She  was  a  sharp-featured,  sharp- 
tongued  woman,  who  seldom  agreed  with  any 
of  her  husband's  opinions  from  principle,  but 
now  her  tired,  harassed  face  was  fallen  into 
gentled  lines. 

"That  red  necktie  sets  real  well  on  you, 
Lemuel,"  she  commented,  amiably.  "What 
was  you  sayin'?  O — the  sermon.  Yes,  'twas 
pleasanter-spoken  than  usual,  I  thought.  I 
do'  know  but  what  we'd  ought  to  try  to  get  to 
church  more  regular,  Lemuel." 

"I  generally  come  out  o'  church  feelin'  I  was 
a  poor,  miserable  sinner  'n'  most  too  wuthless 
'n'  no-count  to  live,"  said  burly  Tom  Jenkins 
to  his  wistful  little  wife  Olivia.  For  the  first 
time  in  months  he  had  allowed  her  to  persuade 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  159 

him  to  go  to  service  witli  her.  "But  to-day — 
I  dunno — seem's  if  I  could  be  some  account  by 
tryin' — 'sif  somebody  had  kind  o'  slapped  me 
on  the  shoulder  'an'  said,  'Brace  up,  Tom,  I'm 
with  you.' " 

Olivia  Jenkins  gazed  at  her  husband  with  the 
loyal  pride  that  ten  years  of  married  disillu- 
sion had  not  been  quite  able  to  destroy.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  he  carried  his  slouching 
shoulders  a  bit  straighter,  walked  a  little  more 
erectly,  like  a  man;  then  he  disappeared  be- 
hind a  film  of  patient  hopeful  tears. 

"God  bless  the  minister's  sermon!"  she 
thought.  "Ain't  it  jest  Providence  we  went 
to-day  'stead  o'  last  week?" 

"It  warn't  so  doctrinal,"  hesitated  Samuel 
Tibbitts,  judiciously,  "but  I  do'  know's  I  sh'd 
call  it  unorthodox  exactly,  though  it  might 
'most  as  well  'a'  been  a  Baptist  sermon." 

"S'  long  as  'twas  Christian,  what  difference 
does  it  make?"  ventured  his  wife,  boldly.  "Us 
ladies  hev  let  the  missionary  society  drop  dret- 
fully  lately.  Mis'  Tucker  jest  told  me  she  was 
goin'  to  post  a  notice  f 'r  it  to  meet  Wednesday 
at  her  house  an'  git  things  into  shape  f'r  run- 
nin'  again." 

Samuel  Tibbitts  fumbled  the  change  in  his 


160  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

trousers  pockets  reflectively.  He  was  known 
as  the  stingiest  man  in  Shady  Valley,  but  the 
sermon  had  filled  his  soul  with  a  painful  un- 
willing spirit  of  generosity.  "The  church  had 
reely  ought  to  be  clapboarded,"  he  frowned. 
"Mebbe— " 

Nathan  Griscom  was  sick  for  three  weeks. 
And  for  three  sermon  days  Jewel  sat  beside 
him  and  jotted  down  his  austere  sermons  with 
troubled,  guilty  fingers.  Shamed  red  burned 
her  cheeks  as  she  wrote. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  wasn't  honoring  and 
obeying!"  she  groaned  to  herself,  "but  O,  it's 
working.  It  isn't  Nathan's  way  of  going  about 
things,  but  seems  though  it's  a  little  more  like 
the  Lord's  way." 

She  went  to  church  with  Honey  Bunch  and 
watched  it  work,  watched  tired  faces  relax  as 
they  listened,  watched  grim  lines  grow  a  bit 
less  grim,  harsh  looks  gentled.  But,  O — O 
what  would  Nathan  say? 

On  the  fourth  Sunday  the  minister  rebelled. 

"I've  been  sick  long  enough,"  he  said,  firmly. 
"I'm  going  to  preach  my  own  sermon  to-day, 
Jewel." 

"Not  to-day !"  she  cried,  faintly,  and  sudden 
terror  filled  her  heart  at  the  thought  of  what 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  161 

she  had  done.  Desperately  she  strove  to  put 
off  the  moment  when  he  must  know. 

"You're  white  as  a  sheet — white  as  two 
sheets,  boy  o'  mine — I  won't  let  you  go !" 

But  in  the  end  he  had  his  way.  Silently  she 
helped  him  into  his  preaching  trim,  tied  his 
necktie  lingeringly  as  though  for  the  last  time ; 
buttoned  his  coat  and  smoothed  down  the  be- 
wildered lock  of  hair  on  his  forehead. 

"Where  is  the  sermon?"  he  asked,  fretfully. 
It  was  a  matter  of  secret  shame  to  him  that 
he  must  read  his  sermons  instead  of  speaking 
them,  but  it  was  a  habit  he  could  not  change. 
Jewel  brought  it  and  stowed  it  away  in  his 
pocket. 

"It's  written  plainly.  I  guess  you  can  read 
it  all  right,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  copied  it 
twice  to  make  sure." 

She  reached  up,  clutching  his  coat  lapels 
with  a  queer  sobbing  laugh.  "I  don't  want 
you  to  kiss  me  before  you  go  this  time, 
preacher  man,"  she  cried.  "I'd  rather  wait 
till  you  get  home.  Promise  me  you'll  want  to 
kiss  me  after  you  get  home !" 

She  watched  the  tall  black-clad  figure  waver 
away  through  her  tears.  Nathan  was  a  stern 
man,  a  pitiless  man.  How  would  he  judge  her? 


162  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"O  Honey  Bunch!  Honey  Bunch!"  she 
sighed  against  the  child's  fluff  of  soft  hair. 
"We  wish  church  time  was  over  don't  we,  and 
daddy  had  come  home." 

Nathan  Griscom  faced  his  congregation  be- 
wilderedly.  For  one  panic-stricken  instant  he 
wondered  whether  he  had  not  come  into  the 
wrong  church  by  terrible  mistake.  But  no, 
they  were  all  his  people,  the  same  people  who 
had  gathered  to  hear  his  first  Shady  Valley 
sermon  a  year  ago.  Not  since  then  had  the 
church  been  so  well  filled.  There  were  the 
young  people  he  had  longed  for  so  bitterly, 
serious  girlish  faces  like  flowers  under 
flowered  hats,  boys  with  cordial,  intent  gaze; 
there  were  tired  mothers  and  fathers  entering 
into  the  service  with  new  zeal;  he  saw  Tom 
Jenkins's  face  in  a  back  pew  oddly  humble  and 
eager,  and  something  like  awe  gripped  him. 
They  were  his  people!  They  were  here  to 
listen  to  him!  They  were  glad  to  have  him 
back  again!  A  sudden  distrust  of  himself 
seized  the  minister  as  the  time  for  the  sermon 
drew  near.  It  was  a  hard  sermon,  he  remem- 
bered, a  stern  one.  He  almost  wished  that  he 
had  not  made  it  quite  so  stern. 

While  the  choir  was  singing,  he  unfolded 


THE  LORD'S  KIND  163 

Jewel's  clearly  written  sheets  and  glanced  at 
them.    And  with  the  first  words  he  understood. 

The  congregation  did  not  quite  recognize 
their  minister  as  he  faced  them  that  day. 
There  was  a  queer  humbleness  about  him,  a 
new  gentleness  in  his  voice  that  matched  the 
new  gentleness  of  his  sermons. 

"As  if,"  they  said  afterward,  "he  was  sort  o' 
lighted  up  in  his  heart  an'  it  shone  through !" 

The  new  light  was  still  on  his  face  for  Jewel 
to  see  as  she  met  him  at  the  door.  And  her 
heart  sang  a  psalm  of  thanksgiving  when  his 
kiss  fell  on  her  trembling  lips. 

"Nathan — Nathan — boy  dear,"  she  faltered 
against  his  cheek.  "I — can  you  see  why  I  did 
it—" 

"Hush,  dear,"  he  said.  "Do  you  suppose  I 
don't  understand?" 

He  drew  a  long  quiet  breath,  looking  down 
into  her  happy,  quivering  face.  "It  was  a  dear 
sermon.  Jewel — a  good  sermon,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "I've  been  preaching  my  kind  all  my 
life.  Now  I'm  going  to  begin  all  over  again. 
And  this  time  I'm  going  to  preach  the  Lord's 
kind,  Jewel !" 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON 

"TT  don't  seem  as  if  I'd  ever  been  real 
J.  youngish,  but  I  suppose  I  must  of," 
mused  Parmelia  Tucker.  The  horn-handled 
knife  hung  over  the  pan  of  apples  balanced  on 
her  pointed  knees.  Neighbors  said  that  Par- 
melia wasted  a  sight  of  time  thinking,  and  this 
was  one  of  the  times. 

"If  they'd  named  me  Pamela,  'stead  of  Par- 
melia, now,"  she  thought  on  whimsically, 
"likely  I'd  'a'  had  yaller  curls  and  pink  cheeks 
— likely  I'd  have  wrote  a  hull  book  o'  poems  by 
now.  Land !  If  ma'd  just  realized  how  much 
depended  on  a  name !" 

The  red  rocker  bumped  unevenly  over  the 
porch  floor  in  an  odd,  creaky  tune  of  revolt. 
Parmelia  Tucker,  spinster,  fifty  and  unbeauti- 
ful,  did  not  look  like  a  poet,  yet  at  times  she 
felt  like  one — "Pamela-times,"  she  called 
them  secretly.  Now,  idling  over  her  homely 
task  on  the  back  porch,  she  looked  out  through 
the  fringe  of  honeysuckle  and  saw,  not  the 
green  old  pump  or  the  broken  chicken  coop, 
W 


168  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

but  a  world  in  meter,  with  rhyming  sunshine 
and  clover  fields  and  placid  woods  and  sky. 
Her  fingers  ached  for  a  pencil.  She  did  not 
know  precisely  what  she  would  write  if  she 
had  one,  but  she  was  certain  that  it  would 
be  poetry — good  poetry — if  it  wasn't  for 
Car'line — 

Parmelia  jerked  her  thoughts  hastily  back 
to  the  apple  dish  and  fell  to  work,  determin- 
ation in  every  spare  line.  She  had  baked  many 
an  unwritten  poem  in  an  apple  pie.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  her  cooking  was  the  envy  of 
Shady  Valley  housewives. 

"Ain't  it  queer,"  they  often  marveled  among 
themselves,  "how  talented  both  the  Tucker 
girls  is:  Car'line  in  poetry  an'  Parmelia  in 
pies?" 

For  a  brisk  space  the  rocker  suspended  its 
bumping.  Parmelia  peeled  her  apples  with 
careful  conscientiousness.  In  the  strict  New 
England  code  of  housewifery,  waste  is  rated 
as  the  unforgivable  sin.  Parmelia  had  in- 
herited the  code,  the  pies — and  Caroline,  be- 
fore she  had  learned  to  be  young.  That  had 
been  almost  forty  years  ago. 

"Good  mornin',  Melia!  You're  doin'  jest 
exactly   what   I'd   ought   to   be   an'   ain't!" 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     169 

laughed  a  fat,  comfortable  voice  unexpectedly. 
In  the  rear  of  the  words  panted  Mrs.  Cap'n 
Moxey,  wearing  the  look  of  importance  befit- 
ting the  chairman  of  the  Ways  and  Means 
Committee  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  on  official  duty. 

"Lands,  Mis'  Moxey,  if  you  don't  look  all  het 
up!"  sympathized  Parmelia.  "Set  down  an' 
I'll  get  a  glass  o'  my  shrub  an'  a  palm  leaf 
fan.  It's  real  comfortable  out  here.  I  tell 
Car'line  the  church  cellar  an'  our  back  porch 
are  the  two  coolest  places  in  town." 

"No,  Melia,  this  ain't  a  settin'-down  visit." 
The  newcomer  fanned  her  broad  flushed  face 
with  her  apron.  "I  got  bread  in  the  oven  an' 
the  Cap'n  to  watch  it,  which  is  jus'  the  same 
as  bread  in  an'  nobody  to  watch  it !  I  jus'  ran 
over  to  ask  Car'line  whether  she'd  feel  to  write 
us  a  poem  for  the  Peter  Browns'  weddin'  anni- 
versary— the  silver  'tis.  Us  ladies  think  it 
would  give  a  real  tone  to  the  occasion." 

The  knife  clattered  to  the  porch  floor  from 
Parmelia's  blundering  fingers.  But  her  face 
was  radiant  with  family  pride. 

"Why,  yes,  she'd  admire  to  help  you,  I'm 
sure,"  said  Parmelia.  "She's  laying  down 
right  now,  or  I'd  call  her.  But  I'll  tell  her, 
Mis'  Moxey — " 


170  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"Thank  you,  Melia.  I  made  certain  she 
would.  I  dunno  what  Shady  Valley'd  do  with- 
out Car'line  to  put  us  into  poetry."  Mrs. 
Moxey  shook  her  head,  so  that  the  curling  pins 
nodded  respectfully.  "It  would  be  a  worse 
chore  than  housecleanin^  for  me  to  drop  into 
poetry  now,"  she  sighed,  "but  it  comes  as 
natural  to  Car'line  as  curly  hair  or  religion. 
You'd  ought  to  be  proud  to  have  a  genius  for 
a  sister,  Melia." 

"She  took  it  from  ma's  side,"  said  Par  melia, 
with  gentle  satisfaction.  "She  was  a  dretful 
reader,  ma  was,  spite  o'  seven  children.  I  can 
see  her  now  makin'  tomato  pickles  with  one 
hand  and  readin'  one  o'  E.  P.  Roe's  books 
with  the  other.  She'd  have  thought  a  sight  o' 
Car'line's  poetry  if  she'd  lived,  ma  would 
have.'^ 

Mrs.  Moxey  nodded  solemnly.  She  was 
plainly  relieved  at  having  delivered  her  mes- 
sage second-hand.  Secretly  she  was  rather  in 
awe  of  Caroline  Tucker,  in  spite  of  the  other's 
limp  old  black  silk  and  darned  lace.  It  was  the 
involuntary  tribute  of  matter  to  mind.  Mrs. 
Moxey  was  never  quite  certain  how  to  spell 
"Con-stan-ti-no-ple"  in  Car'line's  presence. 
She  moved  down  the  path,  like  her  husband's 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     171 

schooner  under  full  sail,  pausing  at  the  gate 
for  her  postscript. 

"O,  yes,  an',  Melia,  ask  her  if  she  can't  work 
in  somewheres  about  Mr.  Brown's  bein'  a  re- 
spected grocer  for  twenty  years,"  she  called 
back.  "We  thought  that  would  touch  him, 
mebbe,  an'  sugar  is  gettin'  awful  high !" 

"All  right,  Mis'  Moxey,  I'll  tell  her,"  nodded 
Parmelia.  She  finished  the  apples  and  took 
them  into  the  kitchen,  where  two  plates  of  pie- 
crust awaited  them.  As  she  closed  the  oven 
door,  a  halting  footstep  sounded  overhead. 

"Melia!    O,  Melia!" 

"Yes,  Car 'line,  you  'wake?" 

Parmelia  hurried  to  the  stair-foot.  The  tall 
drooping  woman  looking  over  the  banisters 
waited  expectantly.  Everything  about  Car'line 
Tucker  drooped  like,  a  wilted  flower — her  nar- 
row shoulders,  the  long  loops  of  yellow  hair 
against  her  faded  cheeks,  her  mouth,  even  her 
voice. 

"When  Car'line  Tucker  gets  to  heaven  the 
angels'll  have  to  help  her  fly,"  the  neighbors 
said,  sometimes,  humorously.  "That  is,  'less 
Parmelia  gets  there  first.  She  ain't  never  had 
to  hang  up  her  own  nightgown,  Car'line  ain't, 
sence  she  was  born." 


172  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Parmelia  looked  at  her  fondly.  There  was 
a  ma-expression  in  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  was 
all  a-tremble  with  pride. 

"Mis'  Moxey  was  over,  jes'  now,  Car'line; 
they  want  you  should  write  'em  another  poem ! 
Ain't  that  nice?" 

The  drooping  figure  took  on  consciousness 
like  a  garment.  Car'line  had  once  had  her 
picture  in  the  Centerville  Herald,  under  the 
magic  caption,  "The  Talented  Bard  of  Shady 
Valley."  Ever  since  then,  in  moments  of  liter- 
ary significance,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  falling 
into  this  pose.  Life  to  her  had  been  unflavored 
save  for  this  occasional  humble  seasoning  of 
fame,  and  she  rolled  it  now,  like  a  pleasant 
morsel,  under  her  tongue. 

"What  is  it  this  time,  Melia?" 

"The  grocer  Brown's  silver  anniversary — " 

Car'line  sighed  gently.  "I  was  sort  o'  hopin' 
'twould  be  a  fun'ral  next,"  she  said,  a  hint  of 
reproach  in  her  tone.  "I  ain't  done  a  fun'ral 
since  Addie  Lewis  was  buried.  This  is  the 
greatest  town  for  weddin's!  I'd  thought  up 
a  lovely  way  to  begin,  'Our  sobs  arise  to  meet 
the  skies,'  but  it  wouldn't  do  for  the  Browns." 

"Maybe  you  could  work  it  in,"  said  Par- 
melia, briskly,  "though  sobs  arisin'  does  sound 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     173 

sort  o'  damp  for  a  weddin' !  Well,  I'll  hurry 
an'  dish  up  dinner  so's  you  can  get  right  at  the 
poem  while  you're  in  the  spirit.  An'  I'll  make 
you  a  dish  o'  good  strong  tea — there's  nothin' 
so  inspirin'  for  poetry  as  a  cup  o'  tea !" 

In  the  odorous  kitchen  she  found  Pamela, 
her  second  self,  waiting.  It  was  very  hard  to 
keep  her  mind  in  stew  pots  when  it  wanted  to 
run  away  into  the  gold  and  green  noonshine 
visible  through  the  tiny-paned  window.  Her 
water-reddened  fingers  halted  for  long  spaces 
on  the  edge  of  their  duty,  while  with  the  eyes 
of  her  soul  she  watched  a  poem  beckoning  to 
her,  begging  to  be  written  down — a  gentle, 
tender  little  poem,  about  a  silver  wedding. 

"Car'line  can  have  her  fun'rals,"  mused 
Parmelia,  a  faded  flush  creeping  over  her 
sallow  cheeks,  "but  I'd  rather  weddin's.  An' 
silver  ones;  why,  seems  as  if  they  are  poetry, 
livin'  together  so  long,  bringin'  up  the  chil- 
dren, buryin'  'em,  an'  marryin'  'em  off,  an' 
always  together.  It's  a  real  poetical  word, 
together  is.    Land !    Land !" 

The  boom  of  the  grandfather's  clock  in  the 
hall,  like  the  voice  of  Duty,  crashed  through 
the  frail  web  of  her  dreaming.  With  a  little 
start  Parmelia  drew  down  the  window  shade, 


174  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

shutting  out  her  Pamela  thoughts  and  tempta- 
tion, and  turned  to  her  dinner-getting.  No  one 
— unless  it  were  her  guardian  angel — knew 
that  Parmelia  Tucker  was  a  poet.  She  had 
dreamed  a  thousand  poems  and  written  none. 
To  her  mind  that  would  have  savored  of  dis- 
loyalty to  Car'line.  Forty  years  ago  the  death- 
stricken  little  ma  had  laid  a  tiny  helpless  girl- 
child  in  Parmelia's  sturdy  twelve-year-old 
arms  and  whispered,  smiling  faintly : 

"She's  yours,  Melia.  I  will  her  to  you.  I 
guess  I'm  too  tired  to — ^bring  up  another — 
one." 

Ever  since  then  Parmelia  had  taken  care  of 
her  legacy,  rejoicing  generously  over  Caroline's 
small  triumphs  and  attainmerfts,  never  even  to 
herself  admitting  that  she  could  do  better  if 
she  tried.  Yet  it  was  the  dread  of  this  that 
kept  her  poems  unwritten.  Suppose,  O  sup- 
pose she  should  write  a  better  one  than 
Car'line ! 

In  the  course  of  a  week  the  grocer  Browns 
were  written,  and  copied  in  violet  ink  in  Caro- 
line's sloping  pen  strokes.  Parmelia,  as  audi- 
ence of  one,  listened  to  its  first  reading  in  the 
front  parlor.  Caroline  would  never  have  in- 
sulted her  art  by  giving  it  a  kitchen  presenta- 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON    175 

tion.  Privately  she  thought  that  "Wedded 
Bliss"  surpassed  all  her  previous  efforts.  The 
loops  of  yellow  hair  trembled  against  her 
hollow  cheeks,  and  in  the  pathetic  parts  joyful 
tears  filmed  her  childish  blue  eyes. 

"It's  lovely,  Car'line,  lovely,"  api)lauded 
Parmelia.  She  looked  at  her  sister  in  honest 
admiration.  "Whittier  couldn't  have  done 
better,  I  don't  believe!  I  shouldn't  be  a  mite 
surprised  if  the  Herald  would  want  to  print  it 
on  the  first  page." 

"It  might  be  better,"  deprecated  Caroline, 
modestly.  "They's  two  words  too  many  in  the 
third  verse,  but  I  guess  I  can  sort  o'  hurry 
over  'em,  so's  nobody'll  notice.  I  thought  that 
part  where  it  says,  'Twenty-five  years  ago  to- 
day a  maiden  with  golden  hair'  was  a  real 
pretty  bit  if  I  do  say  so  who  shouldn't." 

"But  Mis'  Brown's  hair's  fire  red,  Car'line." 

The  poetess  smiled  superiorly.  "Land  sakes, 
Melia,"  she  reproved,  "how'd  red  hair  sound  in 
poetry?  It's  poetic  license  to  say  golden." 
She  fingered  the  paper  with  tender  touch. 
"It'll  be  another  page  in  the  book,  Melia — " 

"It's  most  full,  now,  Car'line — we'll  have  to 
start  another  soon." 

They  bent  together  over  the  plush  picture 


176  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

album  on  the  center  table,  turning  the  leaves 
slowly.  Over  the  photograph  holes  were 
pasted  Caroline's  poems,  all  primly  copied  and 
autographed.  Here  and  there  in  places  of 
honor  were  printed  verses  cut  from  the  Poet's 
Corner  of  the  Centerville  Herald,  and  in  one 
place — read  so  often  that  the  book  would  have 
opened  to  it  itself — was  the  "interview"  with 
the  talented  bard  of  Shady  Valley. 

"There  ain't  scarcely  been  a  person  die  or 
get  married  for  the  last  twenty  years  in  Shady 
Valley  that  I  ain't  married  or  buried,"  Caro- 
line gloated,  gently.  "You  remember  this  one 
for  old  Mis'  Jacob's  fun'ral,  Melia?  She  was 
a  dretful  onpopular  woman,  'count  of  always 
tellin'  folks  what  she  thought  o'  'em,  an'  it 
looked  like  'twas  goin'  to  be  a  pretty  cheerful 
fun'ral.  But  when  the  minister  finished 
readin'  the  poem  there  wasn't  hardly  a  dry  eye 
in  the  church,  and  afterward  Mis  Bisbee  come 
up  to  me  an'  says,  she  says,  'Car'line,  I  don't 
know  when  I've  enjoyed  cryin'  at  a  fun'ral  as 
much  as  I  have  to-day,'  she  says." 

"An'  here's  your  graduatin'  poem,  'Setting 
Sail  Upon  the  Sea  of  Life.'  That  was  a  real 
good  one,  sister ;  and  this :  '  'Tis  Sad  to  See 
Youth  Pine  Away.'     You  wrote  that  when 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     177 

Sally  James  was  so  sick  with  the  measles,  an' 
then  she  got  well  after  all;  and  the  'Vernal 
woods  and  purling  stream'  one  in  the  Herald 
— they're  all  splendid,  Car'line.  I  only  wish 
ma  could  see  'em." 

A  little  silence  stole  over  the  prim  room. 
Then  Caroline  coughed  hoarsely.  Her  thin 
figure  sagged  more  helplessly  over  the  open 
book.  Her  sister  glanced  at  her  sharply,  then 
with  unnecessary  bustle  she  jumped  up  and 
jerked  aside  the  window  curtains. 

"If  there  ain't  the  Bisbees'  five-o'clock 
cows !"  she  said.  "I'd  no  kind  o'  notion  'twas 
so  late.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  fix  you  up  a  plate 
of  hot  milk  toast,  Car'line,  and  open  a  jar  o' 
currant  jell.  You're  all  run  down,  writin'  so 
hard.    That's  what  ails  you." 

On  her  way  out  she  stopped  beside  the  table 
to  lay  an  awkward  hand  on  her  sister's  bony 
shoulders.  It  was  as  near  a  caress  as  her  New 
England  training  dared. 

"I  been  thinkin'  maybe  you'd  ought  to  get  a 
new  dress  an'  go  over  to  Centerville  an'  get 
your  picture  taken  again,  Car'line,"  she  said, 
cheerfully.  "Likely  as  not  the  Herald'll  want 
to  print  one,  an'  that  old  picture  don't  do  you 
justice  a  mite." 


178  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

But  Caroline  never  had  the  picture  taken. 
Under  the  merciless  heat  of  the  next  two  weeks 
she  faded  gently  out  of  life,  so  easily  that 
Parmelia  did  not  realize  her  going.  In  Shady 
Valley  folk  are  not  accounted  ill  unless  they 
"take  to  their  beds"  and  have  the  doctor,  and 
Caroline  went  about  her  days  as  usual,  droop- 
ing a  bit  more  perhaps,  but  uncomplaining. 
It  was  on  the  edge  of  a  hot  July  evening  that 
Parmelia  found  her  lying  on  the  lounge  with 
closed  eyes,  as  though  she  were  asleep.  But 
as  she  started  to  tiptoe  away  Caroline  opened 
her  eyes  and  smiled  up  at  her  sister  wistfully. 

"I  been  lyin'  here  sayin'  over  all  my  poems," 
she  whispered,  shyly.  "An'  I  been  thinkin', 
somehow  I  guess  they  aren't  much  for  poetry 
after  all — I  know  folks  here  thinks  so — Shady 
Valley  folks  don't  understand  about  poetry — 
but  ma'll  like  'em ;  I'm  goin'  to  say  'em  all  over 
to  ma  when  I  see  her  up  there,  Melia." 

An  hour  later  Caroline  slipped  away  to  ma. 

"I'm  dretful  glad  I  never  wrote  mine,"  said 
Parmelia.  It  was  a  month  later  and  the  house 
seemed  strangely  large  and  empty,  she  herself 
oddly  useless.  Caroline  had  been  her  excuse 
for  being  for  so  long,  that  left  alone  she  felt 
like  a  shadow  that  has  lost  its  body.     The 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     179 

scuffle  of  falling  leaves  on  the  porch  roof 
echoed  her  sigh.  Somewhere  a  shutter  banged 
monotonously  against  the  clapboards  and  the 
long  shadows  of  the  porch  woodbine  trailed 
along  the  wall-paper.  Parmelia  stirred  rest- 
lessly and  the  sewing  fell  into  her  lap. 

"Poetry  was  all  she  had,"  she  thought 
drearily,  aloud.  "She  warn't  like  me,  Car 'line 
warn't,  able  to  piece  out  with  pies  an'  stockin'- 
darnin'.  Everybody's  got  to  have  a  reason 
for  livin' — hers  was  poems,  an'  mine  was 
Car'line.  Now  she's  gone  there  don't  seem 
anything — " 

The  words  trailed  into  sudden  silence.  For 
a  long  while  Parmelia  sat  motionless  in  the 
grip  of  a  new  idea.  Caroline  was  gone.  There 
was  no  reason  now  why  she  shouldn't  write  her 
poems  at  last.  It  was  as  though  a  door  within 
her  had  been  opened  suddenly  to  let  in  a  flood 
of  light.  Yet  she  did  not  spring  up  suddenly 
to  find  her  long-delayed  destiny.  The  moment 
was  too  solemn  for  haste. 

"Land !  Land !"  she  murmured  with  a  slow 
breath.  "To  think  I'm  goin'  to  write  'em  at 
last!  I  shall  sign  'em  Pamela — Pamela 
Tucker.  It'll  be  poetic  license,  but  Parmelia 
looks  more  fittin'  signed  to  a  pie !    An'  before 


180  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

I  write  a  single  livin'  word  I'm  goin'  to  clean 
the  house !  I  hadn't  any  heart  to  red  up  lately, 
but  seems  as  if  'twould  be  more  proper  to  begin 
clean." 

For  three  days  Parmelia  Tucker  put  her 
little  house  of  life  in  order.  She  swept  and 
washed,  dusted  and  cleaned.  As  she  toiled,  a 
spare,  angular  creature  in  her  sad  black  gown, 
the  poem  that  she  would  write  went  singing 
through  her  brain.  She  had  no  fears  lest  after 
all  her  waiting  she  should  have  nothing  to  say. 
Had  she  not  been  getting  ready  to  write  that 
poem  for  nearly  fifty  years? 

"Fun'rals  an'  weddin's  aren't  the  only 
poetical  things,"  she  reflected  over  her  happy 
task.  "It  isn't  so  much  what  happens  to  folks 
as  what  don't.  Why,  they's  a  heap  o'  poetry 
lying  around  everywhere  if  you  can  only  see 
it.  I  shouldn't  be  a  mite  surprised  if  I  sh'd 
find  some  in  the  spare  room  closet,  or  down 
cellar." 

At  last  her  little  ceremony  of  purification 
was  complete  and  the  tiny  house  shining 
throughout.  Last  of  all  Parmelia  put  on  her 
best  black  silk  gown  and  crimped  her  hair 
painfully  before  the  wavery  mirror  in  her 
under-the-eaves  bedroom. 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     181 

"Folks  would  think  I  was  crazy,  dressin'  up 
like  this  on  Wednesday  mornin',"  she  thought, 
defiantly,  "but  then,  folks  couldn't  understand. 
Even  the  minister  couldn't." 

She  got  out  the  violet  ink  and  the  best  note- 
paper,  arranging  them  primly  on  the  parlor 
table,  and  sat  down.  Now  that  her  moment 
had  come  she  was  quite  pale.  The  sound  of 
the  doorbell  was  almost  welcome. 

"Good  mornin',  Melia." 

Mrs.  Moxey  stood  on  the  porch,  wearing  her 
best  shawl  over  her  everyday  gingham.  Her 
voice  held  the  solemn  note  reserved  for 
funerals  and  Sunday  school. 

"No,  I  can't  stop,  Melia.  I  come  on  an 
errant — about — Car 'line." 

Her  double  chins  shook  with  honest  feeling. 
"The  Ladies'  Aid  think  that  'twould  be  nice  to 
do  somethin'  to  show  how  proud  Shady  Valley 
is  of  her.  We've  got  two  hundred  dollars 
we  were  savin'  for  missions,  but  they's  always 
plenty  o'  heathen  an'  there  won't  ever  be  but 
one  Car'line  Tucker  in  Shady  Valley,  Melia. 
We  thought  o'  havin'  her  poems  printed  in  a 
book.  Ben  Orrin  over  t'  the  Centerville  Herald 
ought  to  do  it  for  us  reasonable,  seein'  how 
often  he's  published  Car'line — " 


182  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

Mrs.  Moxey  shook  her  head  solemnly.  "She 
was  a  real  genius,"  she  finished  simply.  "We 
thought  a  weepin'  wlller'd  be  nice  an'  tasty  for 
the  cover,  but  o'  course  we  didn't  want  to  do 
anythin'  till  we  found  out  how  you  felt." 

"I  think  it's  a  lovely  idea,  Mis'  Moxey,"  said 
Parmelia,  quietly.  "I'll  help  you  all  I  can — 
it — ^it  would  o'  made  Car'line  very  proud." 

Long  after  her  visitor's  broad  back  had  dis- 
appeared behind  the  rusting  woodbine  hedge, 
Parmelia  stood  staring  away  into  the  autumn 
distance  to  where,  beyond  the  church,  a 
glimpse  of  white  headstones  showed  on  the  hill- 
side. 

"No,"  she  said  aloud,  slowly.  "No,  I  didn't 
think  o'  it  before,  but  'twouldn't  be  fair  to  her 
memory.  It  belonged  to  Car'line,  the  po'trying 
o'  Shady  Valley  did,  an'  I  haven't  any  right  to 
what's  hers." 

The  wind  fluttered  her  thin  silk  skirt  about 
her  knees  remindingly.  A  little  whirl  of  red 
and  golden  leaves  danced  out  of  the  gate,  look- 
ing to  her  fancy  oddly  like  a  slender  figure 
with  yellow  hair.  It  seemed  to  be  glancing 
back  wistfully  to  her,  waving.  Her  lips  moved 
unconsciously.  Parmelia  was  saying  good-by 
to  Pamela, 


A  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON     183 

"I'll  just  get  into  my  blue  gingham,  and  go 
straight  out  to  the  kitchen  an'  roll  out  a  batch 
o'  pies,"  she  cried,  cheerfully,  aloud.  "Some- 
how I  feel  sort  o'  hungry  for  an  apple  pie !" 

But  in  the  door  she  paused.  The  fire  of  her 
faith  blazed  a  moment  in  her  eyes. 

"But  if  I  had  written  a  poem,  it  would  have 
been  a  good  one  I"  cried  Parmelia  Tucker,  stub- 
bornly. 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST 


I 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST 
F  the  crops  are  good,"  said  John  Junior, 


handles  of  his  plow  and  the  broad  wet  backs 
of  his  horses  he  sent  a  straight,  unsmiling 
glance  over  the  rocky  slopes  and  hollows  of  the 
farm.  The  chill  May  day  lent  no  illusions  to 
the  view  of  boulder  strewn  fields  and  ancient 
orchard,  bleak,  bare,  unpromising  under  the 
gray  sky ;  but  with  the  eye  of  imagination  John 
Junior  saw  a  very  different  scene — there  on 
the  southern  slope  bronze  oats,  beyond  pota- 
toes, there  in  the  valley  corn,  and  here  in  the 
nearby  fields  clover,  two  crops,  maybe,  if  it 
were  not  a  dry  summer. 

It  had  taken  the  sweat  and  muscle  of  three 
generations,  three  lifetimes  of  bent  backs  and 
twisted,  callous  hands  to  coax  a  yield  from  the 
barren  acres.  And  the  backs  and  hands  had 
not  all  belonged  to  men.  New  England  women 
plod  sturdily  side  by  side  with  their  men  folks 
through  life's  better  or  worse.  John  Junior 
187 


188  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

thought  suddenly  of  his  mother,  who  had  died 
an  old,  tired  woman  at  forty ;  of  the  neighbor 
women  faded  and  joyless  in  their  limp  calicoes ; 
and  then,  with  a  pang,  of  Joyce  Larrabee's 
straight,  shapely  young  shoulders  and  slim, 
white  hands. 

When  John  Burt,  Senior,  lay  dying  in  the 
low,  unpainted  farmhouse  of  his  fathers,  he 
had  called  Young  John  and  broken  painfully 
a  lifetime  of  reserve. 

"If  ye  ever  get  married,  John  Junior,"  he 
had  whispered,  "get  her  a  hired  gal.  I  always 
'lowed  t'  get  your  mother  one,  but  somehow 
it  warn't  ever  jest  so's  I  could — sickness  an' 
the  mortgage,  fust  one  thing  an'  then  another. 
But  I've  been  thinkin'  lyin'  here — mebbe 
'twould  have  lengthened  out  her  life  some. 
John  Junior,  don't  ye  ever  get  married  'less  so 
be  it  ye  can  get  her  a  hired  gal." 

"And  I  shan't,"  said  John  Junior,  with  a 
deep  breath.  His  fingers  gripped  the  plow 
handles  fiercely.  "But  if  the  crops  are  good 
this  year — " 

The  sweetness  of  the  thought  sent  him  crash- 
ing onward  along  the  slope,  in  a  flurry  of  in- 
dustry, as  though  his  heart's  desire  lay  at  the 
end  of  a  long  furrow  and  he  must  plow  his  way 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST        189 

to  her.  From  the  crest  of  the  ridge  he  could 
look  across  the  smooth  Larrabee  fields  to  the 
big,  comfortable  white  house  where  Joyce  lived. 
Jothan  Larrabee  was  a  select  man  in  Shady 
Valley  and  accounted  "well  off"  by  his  neigh- 
bors. There  was  a  mahogany  piano  in  his 
front  room  and  his  wife  and  daughters  always 
dressed  well.  Joyce  had  even  been  away  for  a 
year  at  a  fashionable  boarding  school,  and 
since  her  return  there  had  been  few  Saturday 
evenings — the  evening  when  Shady  Valley 
goes  a-courting — on  which  the  lamp  with  the 
red  silk  shade  had  not  been  lighted  in  the 
Larrabee  front  parlor. 

John  Junior  tramped  back  and  forth  across 
the  long  fields,  cleaving  his  furrows  with 
patient  care.  A  warm  steam  crept  from  the 
moist,  overturned  earth,  like  the  breath  of  the 
living  things  beneath  the  sod.  He  drew  it  into 
his  lungs  with  eager  whiffs. 

"The  winter  is  over,"  he  chanted  in  deep, 
untutored  bass.  "The  rain  is  over  and  gone; 
the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come — " 

In  the  fields,  mth  only  the  brown  earth  and 
the  sky  and  the  sleek  work  horses  to  hear,  John 
Junior  was  something  of  a  poet.  The  gray 
dawns  often  heard  the  majestic  words  of  the 


190  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

psalms  rolling  above  the  clatter  of  his  mowing 
machine  or  the  flash  of  his  scythe.  He 
trembled  through  all  his  gaunt  awkward  six- 
foot  length  when  he  met  Joyce  Larrabee  and 
could  find  no  words  to  say,  but  to  the  rocks 
and  the  wet  earth  and  the  greening  trees  he 
spoke  his  love  for  her  in  the  age-old  words  of 
Solomon. 

A  harsh  horn  blast  crashed  through  his  lyric 
mood,  and  he  sighed  as  he  turned  the  horses' 
heads  toward  their  noonday  oats.  There  was 
no  poetry  in  Aunt  Sophronia.  The  psalms  to 
her  meant  church  and  Sunday  school,  and  she 
felt  privately  rather  nervous  when  the  Song 
of  Songs  was  mentioned. 

She  stood  now  at  the  stove  stirring  a  kettle 
of  boiled  dinner  with  aggressive  jerks  of  her 
sharp  elbows — a  capable  and  unbeautiful 
figure  from  her  wispy  white  hair  in  its  small 
tight  knot  to  her  flat,  down-trodden  soles.  She 
did  not  look  up  when  John  Junior  came  in,  but 
listened  to  his  splashings  at  the  sink  with  lips 
grimly  set. 

At  length  she  spoke  snappishly  over  her 
shoulder :  "I  seen  Joyce  Larrabee  ridin'  by  this 
mornin'  with  that  young  sprig  o'  a  doctor  over 
to  the  Corners.    They  was  laffln'  an'  carryin' 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST        191 

on  like  they'd  knowed  each  other  all  their 
lives." 

The  splashings  ceased.  A  silence  while  John 
Junior  groped  for  the  roller  towel,  then, 
muffled  in  its  folds,  an  indistinguishable  sound 
of  assent.  His  aunt  peered  across  the  kitchen 
with  exasperation  in  her  faded  eyes. 

"Polks  do  say  as  how  there's  an  under- 
standin'  between  'em  an'  they're  only  waitin' 
till  his  practice  picks  up.  Abby  Bliss  says 
Mis'  Larrabee  was  in  to  bring  her  three  dozen 
linen  huck-a-back  towels  t'  hem,  an'  land 
knows  towels  gen'lly  mean  somethin'." 

John  Junior  sat  silently  down  at  the  white 
scrubbed  pine  table  and  attacked  his  dinner. 
His  unresponsiveness  nagged  his  aunt  to  the 
unreasoning  cruelty  we  often  use  toward  those 
we  love. 

"I'd  be  ^shamed  to  hold  my  head  up  if  I'd 
a  been  cut  out  by  a  young  upstart  from  nobody 
knows  where,"  she  remarked,  as  she  sank 
heavily  into  her  seat  opposite,  a  spot  of  red 
flickering  in  her  flabby  cheeks.  "I  guess  the 
Burts  is  as  good  as  any  folks  in  Shady  Valley 
if  we  ain't  got  a  pianny  an'  a  set  of  gold-edged 
chiny  to  eat  off  of.  I  declare  for't,  John 
Junior,  it  gits  me  all  riled  up  to  see  you  hang- 


192  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

ing  round  that  Larrabee  gal,   meechin'   an 
dumb  as  a  pertater.    Ef  you'd  had  the  gump- 
tion of  a  hopper-grass,  you'd  ha'  been  married 
long  ago !" 

"I  haven't  had  the  money,"  said  John 
Junior,  simply.  His  tone  left  no  room  for 
argument,  but  his  aunt  unearthed  a  buried 
grievance  in  the  words. 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  you  ain't  hed  the 
money,"  she  fretted ;  "if  it's  me  that's  standin' 
in  your  light,  I'm  ready  an'  willin'  to  go  to  the 
town  farm  whenever  you  hitch  up  an'  take  me 
there.  No,  you  can't  tell  me,  John  Junior. 
You've  hed  plenty  to  keep  a  wife  like  your 
father  kep'  his,  an'  his  father  afore  him,  but 
you  ain't  got  enough  to  git  fuss  an'  feathers 
for  Joyce  Larrabee!  Jest  'cause  she's  got 
curly  yaller  hair  an'  chiny  blue  eyes  an'  white 
hands  to  strum  'The  Maiden's  Prayer'  on  the 
pianny  she's  too  good  to  cook  an'  wash  dishes 
like  common  folks." 

John  Junior  pushed  back  his  plate  and  rose 
heavily.  He  glanced  across  at  the  shapeless 
figure  in  its  baggy  calico  and  tried  to  imagine 
Joyce  in  the  hideous  panoply  of  drudgery. 
The  news  his  aunt  had  brought  him  ached 
dully  in  his  silent  soul.    Would  he  be  too  late 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST        193 

if  he  waited  till  harvest  time?  He  set  his 
young  jaws  grimly. 

"I  got  to  get  back  to  plowing,"  he  said,  tak- 
ing up  his  straw  hat.  In  the  door  he  paused 
to  look  back. 

"Look's  now  as  though  the  crops  might  be 
pretty  good,"  he  said  slowly.  "Maybe,  Aunt 
^Phronie,  I  can  get  us  a  hired  girl  'long  about 
Thanksgiving  time." 

That  evening  he  put  on  a  clean  shirt,  combed 
back  his  thick,  dark  hair  in  wet  spirals,  and 
strode  across  the  fields  to  the  Larrabees'. 
Clouds  of  dim-winged  night  things  fluttered 
up  from  the  damp  grass,  brushing  his  face. 
The  evening  was  warm  for  the  season,  and  a 
faint  silver  moon  of  spring  was  caught  in  the 
budding  branches  of  the  elm  by  the  stone  wall. 
It  was  a  night  of  romance,  but,  strangely 
enough,  John  Junior  was  thinking  of  his  aunt's 
knobby,  work-twisted,  seamy,  brown  hands. 
Even  when  the  white  blur  on  the  veranda  be- 
came Joyce,  running  to  meet  him,  the  vision 
persisted. 

On  the  top  step  he  sat  looking  up  at  her, 
listening  to  her  gay  chatter  and  drinking  in 
wistfully  the  warm  young  beauty  of  her  vivid 
face.    In  his  heart  the  things  he  did  not  mean 


194  BLUE  GINGHAM  POLKS 

to  say  were  so  mingled  with  the  things  he  did 
that  he  hardly  dared  trust  himself  to  speak  at 
all.  She  was  so  little  and  dainty  perched  up 
there  above  him !  He  could  have  held  the  tiny 
white  shod  foot  swinging  near  him  in  the  hol- 
low of  one  big  brown  hand.  Resolutely  he  tore 
his  thoughts  from  the  dangerous  to  the  com- 
monplace. 

"I  came — over  to  ask  if  you'd  go  to  the  neigh- 
borhood picnic  next  Tuesday  week — with 
me" —  he  fumbled  with  his  hat-brim — "if  you 
aren't  promised  already." 

"Too  late!"  smiled  Joyce.  "Dr.  Wilson 
asked  me  only  last  night.  If  you'd  been  a 
better  neighbor,  you'd  have  got  in  first !"  Her 
eyes  were  suddenly  serious  above  the  mischiev- 
ous smile.  "I  haven't  seen  you  for  ages,  but 
I  suppose  you've  been  busy." 

"It's  planting  time,"  said  John  Junior, 
simply.  He  got  awkwardly  to  his  feet  and 
stood  towering  over  her,  great  hands  knotted 
together.  "It  hasn't  been  because  I  haven't 
wanted  to  come." 

He  drew  himself  up  sharply.  "Well,  I  must 
be  going.  It's  a  sightly  evenin',  isn't  it?  I 
always  did  think  this  was  the  purtiest  time  of 
year." 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST        195 

Joyce  arose  with  a  delicate  swaying  motion 
like  that  of  a  flower  on  its  stem.  She  looked  up 
into  the  brown  rugged  face  above  her,  and  sud- 
denly one  slim,  white  hand  went  out  and 
rested  on  his  arm.  It  made  him  think  of  the 
little  white  winged  things  that  had  fluttered 
up  in  the  fields. 

"I — I'm  sorry  about  the  picnic,  John — 
honest  I  am !"  she  said,  shyly. 

"Joy !" 

She  felt  the  shake  of  his  arm  under  her 
fingers,  heard  his  long,  hard-drawn  breath ;  but 
what  he  might  have  said  only  the  Moon  of 
Lovers  knows.  For  in  an  instant's  prophetic 
vision  he  seemed  to  see  on  his  sleeve,  not  her 
slim  white  hand  but  one  grown  shapeless,  big- 
jointed  like  Aunt  Sophronia's. 

"I'm  sorry  too,"  he  said,  slowly ;  "I  was  kind 
of  lotting  on  it,  but  I  hope  you'll  have  a  real 
nice  time.  It  ought  to  be  all  leafed  out  in 
Eppleby's  Grove  if  this  weather  holds."  He 
moved  down  the  steps,  then  at  the  bottom 
turned  with  a  queer  eagerness.  It  was  as 
though  his  love  must  speak  out  in  spite  of  the 
lock  he  had  set  on  his  lips. 

"It  looks  like  a  good  crop  year,  Joy,"  he 
said,  and  she  wondered  at  the  sudden  quiver  of 


196  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

his  voice.    "I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  things 
take  hold  an'  grow  like  they  have  this  spring !" 

He  strode  home  through  the  sweet-breathed 
fields  with  their  soft  insect  whirrings  and 
flutterings,  and  fumbled  under  the  mat  on  the 
back  stoop  for  the  key.  In  the  moonlight  the 
old  house  seemed  to  have  possibilities  of  beauty 
that  he  had  not  seen  before. 

"A  bay  window,  mebbe,  toward  the  road,  for 
posies,  and  two  coats  o'  paint,"  he  mused,  "and 
the  southeast  bedroom  papered," 

The  southeast  bedroom  was  the  guest  room, 
hoarded,  in  the  thrifty  New  England  fashion, 
for  the  guests  that  seldom  came.  But  no  other 
room  would  do  for  Joyce. 

"If  the  crops  are  only  good,"  he  muttered 
as  he  creaked,  tiptoeing  clumsily,  up  the  back- 
stairs to  his  tiny  under-the-eaves  room. 

Aunt  Sophronia,  across  the  hall,  lifted  her 
curl-papered  white  head  from  the  pillows,  lis- 
tening. 

"He's  been  traipsin'  over  the  medders,"  she 
thought,  fiercely,  "hangin'  'round  that  high- 
faluten  Larrabee  gal.  An'  I  ain't  no  idee  he's 
spoke,  jest  sot  an'  sot.  My  patience!  I  don't 
hold  for  corkin'  up  feelin's  where  they'll  turn 
sour  an  spile  your  disposition!    But  there,  I 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST        197 

s'pose  I  'd  ought  to  leave  it  in  the  hands  o'  the 
Lord — an'  John." 

As  the  summer  slipped  by  the  radiant 
promises  of  May  were  unfulfilled.  A  scorching 
June  ruined  the  hay  crop.  The  oat  field  on 
the  hillside  shriveled  into  worthless  straw. 
John  Junior,  struggling  mightily  with  fate, 
sang  no  more  psalms  of  rejoicing  to  the  earth 
and  sky.  In  October  he  stood  on  the  edge  of 
his  stubble  fields  and  faced  the  poor  wreckage 
of  his  hopes. 

"Not  this  year,"  he  told  himself,  heart-sickly. 
"I  can't  ask  her  this  year." 

The  rattle  of  a  passing  buggy  on  the  road 
below  came  to  his  ears.  It  was  Dr.  Wilson's, 
and  Joyce  Larrabee  sat  in  it  laughing  and 
talking  so  busily  that  she  did  not  notice  him. 
John  Junior  watched  the  buggy  until  it 
rounded  the  hill,  and  his  face  was  very  white 
and  set. 

"And  next  year'll  be  too  late,"  he  muttered, 
heavily.  "He's  book-larned,  and  wears  good 
clothes.  I  haven't  got  a  chance  if  I  wait. 
Maybe  if  I  asked  her  now — " 

His  somber  gaze  swept  the  bare  fields,  and 
with  sudden  keen  new  vision  he  saw  their  rocks 
and  unevennesses,  the  twisted  limbs  of  the  old 


198  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

orchard,  the  low  farmhouse,  forlorn  and  grace- 
less under  the  falling  leaves.  He  flung  back 
his  head  with  a  deep  breath  that  lifted  the  blue 
checked  shirt  across  his  great  chest. 

"I  got  my  row  to  hoe  and  I'm  going  to  hoe 
it,"  he  said,  slowly,  "but  it  isn't  a  job  for  little 
bits  of  women  things  to  tackle,  and  it  would 
be  a  pretty  poor  sort  o'  loving,  John  Burt,  that 
would  ask  it — remember  that !" 

And  then  and  there  he  put  away  his  hope 
from  him.  Aunt  Sophronia  watched  her 
beautifully  cooked  dinners  go  uneaten,  and 
nodded  fierce  little  nods. 

"Jes'  's  I  surmised,"  she  told  herself.  "She's 
give  him  the  go-by  f'r  that  sissified  city  feller. 
Well,  I  guess  he  don't  keer — I  guess  they's  jest 
as  good  fish  that  ain't  caught.  But  he  don't 
seem  t'  relish  his  eatin's  none." 

She  turned  anxiously  to  her  pots  and  pans. 
In  New  England  members  of  a  family  do  not 
express  their  love  for  one  another  in  words  but 
in  inarticulate  deeds.  Aunt  Sophronia  baked 
her  sympathy  into  marvelous  pies,  stirred  her 
grief  and  pity  into  nourishing  stews.  As 
Thanksgiving  drew  near  she  commenced  her 
preparation  for  a  gala  dinner.  And  then  sud- 
denly, two  days  before,  she  was  stricken  down. 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST        199 

John  Junior,  coming  home  from  the  village, 
found  her  lying  in  the  southeast-room  bed,  the 
best  quilt  pulled  smoothly  up  across  her  lean 
old  chest. 

"Don't  you  worrit,  John,"  she  told  Mm, 
calmly.  "I  been  livin'  on  borrered  time  for  two 
years.  The  Lord's  called  me  an'  I'm  ready  an' 
willin'  to  go.  The  turkey's  fixed  to  pop  straight 
int'  the  oven — don't  forget  t'  baste  him  every 
half  hour.  Eat  the  punkin  pies  first;  the 
mince  keeps  better.  I  kind  o'  wish  I  could  hev 
cooked  dinner  for  you,  this  Thanksgiving,  but 
'twarn't  ordained." 

On  Thanksgiving  morning  John  Junior 
drove  up  the  winding  hill  toward  home.  He 
sat  loosely  bent  forward  in  his  seat,  holding 
the  reins  between  lax  fingers,  big  shoulders 
drooping  forlornly  under  the  wrinkled  black 
Sunday  suit.  Behind  in  the  bleak  little  Shady 
Valley  churchyard  he  had  left  tired  old  Aunt 
Sophronia,  ahead  waited  a  silent,  empty  house 
— and  it  was  Thanksgiving  Day. 

"She'll  get  a  chance  to  rest,  now,"  he 
thought,  drearily.  "I  oughtn't  to  begrudge  her 
— but  it's  goin'  to  be  powerful  lonely.  She  was 
good  to  me,  Aunt  Phronie  was." 

Visions  of  long  ago,  forgotten  gingerbread 


200  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

men  and  sugar  cookies  that  had  delighted  his 
boyish  days  returned  to  his  mind,  and  tears 
filled  his  eyes. 

"I'll  just  pick  up  a  cold  bite,"  he  told  him- 
self, hastily.  "It  isn't  worth  the  trouble  to 
make  up  a  fire  in  the  stove.  This  afternoon 
I'll  get  at  the  corn  shucking." 

The  buggy  creaked  and  jostled  among  the 
frozen  ruts.  On  either  side  of  the  road  lay  his 
fields,  shorn  and  bare,  with  two  or  three  corn 
shucks  flapping  in  the  wind.  John  Junior 
looked  across  them  to  where  a  curling  feather 
of  smoke  marked  the  Larrabee  house.  This 
morning  he  had  heard  that  Joyce  and  Dr.  Wil- 
son were  engaged. 

Up  the  home  lane  creaked  the  buggy,  be- 
tween the  Lombardy  poplars  on  either  side, 
and  into  the  barn,  built,  according  to  New 
England  fashion,  facing  the  road,  with  the 
house  beyond.  John  pottered  about  his  un- 
harnessing, putting  off  as  long  as  he  could  the 
moment  of  going  into  the  house.  When  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  done  he  crossed  the 
frozen  yard  and  fumbled  under  the  porch  mat 
for  the  key.    It  was  gone. 

Amazed,  he  turned  the  knob  and  stepped 
into  the  house.    A  warm  wave  of  spicy  odor 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST       201 

greeted  him :  turkey  odors,  odors  of  turnip  and 
squash,  and  mince  and  pumpkin  pies.  The 
table  in  the  long  room  was  covered  with  a 
white  cloth,  set  with  the  best  dishes  from  the 
spare-room  cupboard.  Some  one  had  rubbed 
the  silver  into  brightness  and  placed  a  pink 
spray  of  Martha  Washington  geranium  in  a 
glass  vase  in  the  center.  It  was  a  homey  table, 
and  the  warmth  and  fragrance  of  the  whole 
swept  and  garnished  room  was  home. 

John  Junior  stood  very  still,  trying  to  under- 
stand. It  was  all  so  much  like  something  he 
had  dreamed  of  before  the  crops  had  failed. 
Some  good  neighbor  woman,  taking  pity  on  his 
loneliness,  had  slipped  across  fields  to  do  this 
for  him,  and  he  was  grateful,  but  somehow  it 
hurt  a  little — it  was  so  much  like  the  hope  that 
he  had  put  away. 

A  queer  little  sound  from  the  kitchen  drew 
him  across  the  room.  He  stood  awe-struck  in 
the  doorway  gazing  at  his  dream  come  true. 

"I — I  didn't  think  you'd  be  back  so  soon," 
fluttered  Joyce  Larrabee.  Almost  lost  in  the 
capacious  folds  of  Aunt  Sophronia's  gingham 
apron,  she  stood  by  the  opened  oven  door,  bast- 
ing spoon  poised  over  the  browning  turkey. 
A  wave  of  bright  color  ran  over  her  sweet, 


202  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

downcast  face,  and  she  would  not  meet  his 
eyes.  "I — hope  you're  hungry — he's  such  a 
monster  of  a  bird !  He's  almost  done,  then  I'll 
run  back.  I — didn't  expect  you'd  get  back  so 
soon." 

The  words  tripped  over  her  unsteady  tongue. 
Still  he  could  not  speak.  The  sweet  wonder 
of  her  in  his  kitchen  struck  him  dumb. 

"I  ran  away!"  laughed  the  girl,  in  panicky 
gayety.  "We  don't  have  dinner  till  night  at 
our  house.  There !  Isn't  your  mouth  watering 
this  living  minute?  I-^I'm  quite  a  talented 
turkey-cooker  if  I  do  say  so  who  shouldn't." 

"Joy!  Joy!"  He  was  stumbling  toward 
her  across  the  room.  The  spoon  slipped  from 
her  unsure  fingers  to  the  floor  with  a  soft 
clatter,  but  she  did  not  run  away. 

"Yes,  John." 

He  had  her  in  his  arms  with  breathless 
words — "Joy !  Little  girl — my  little  girl !  O, 
Joy !  Joy !  Joy !" 

He  could  not  speak  her  name  enough.  His 
big  hands  were  about  her  cheeks  lifting  her 
face  to  his  hungry  gaze.  Suddenly  they  fell 
away. 

"I — I  was  forgetting."  He  shaded  his  eyes. 
"I  was  forgetting  about — Wilson." 


He  had  her  in  his  arms  with  breathless  words. 


JOHN  JUNIOR'S  HARVEST       205 

"Dr.  Wilson  is  just  my  friend,"  said  Joyce, 
slowly.  "It  was  a — mistake,  that  report — I'm 
not  going  to  marry  him,  John." 

But  he  held  his  arms  rigidly  at  his  sides, 
his  young  jaw  set  sternly.  "Even  if  you  aren't 
going  to  marry  him  I  haven't  got  the  right  to 
ask  you.  If  the  crops  hadn't  failed  I  could 
have,  honest,  but  not  now.  It  was  seeing  you 
in  the — apron,  and  all." 

"I — like  aprons,  John." 

In  the  gentle  little  silence  the  bubbling  of 
the  savory  pots  and  the  soft  hissing  of  the 
browning  turkey  were  the  only  sounds.  He 
looked  down  somberly  at  the  sweet  up-tilted 
face,  across  the  gulf  of  his  duty,  struggling  for 
right  words. 

"Listen,  Joy,"  he  said  at  last,  dully,  "listen 
— you're  sorry  for  me — but  I've  got  no  right  to 
take  advantage.  Do  you  know  what  it  would 
be  like — marrying  me?  Getting  old  and  worn 
out  afore  your  time,  drudging  to  make  both 
ends  meet,  wearing  common  clothes,  blistering 
your  hands  at  cooking  and  sweeping.  I — I 
love  you  too  well  to  spoil  your  life,  Joy." 

She  moved  a  step  nearer  with  a  little  trem- 
bling laugh. 

"You've  left  out  one  thing,  John,"  she  whis- 


206  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

pered,  "the  important  thing.  The  rest  don't 
count — if  this  thing  is  true — suppose,  just  sup- 
pose I  happened  to  love  you,  John." 

A  sharp  hissing  from  the  unbasted  turkey 
called  her  to  the  stove,  but  not  before  she  had 
caught  the  joy  that  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"See!  He's  done  to  a  turn,"  she  cried. 
"John,  John,  aren't  you  going  to  invite  me  to 
eat  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  you?" 

With  a  glad  cry  he  took  her  into  his  arms. 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING 

"OOME  folks  the  good  Lord  sets  in  families, 
k3  and  some  he  sets  in  flower-gardens," 
mused  Rosemary  Sweet,  over  her  lapf ul  of  fine 
cambric  and  lace.  The  needle  slipped  from 
relaxed  fingers  as  she  swayed  to  and  fro  mus- 
ingly, tender  eyes  on  the  Freckled  Family 
straggling  by  to  the  swimming-hole  in  a  cloud 
of  dust  and  twinkling  brown  legs.  "Now,  when 
Myra  Louise  Holly  gets  to  heaven,  she'll  give 
the  angel  at  the  gate  a  long  list  of  the  stockin's 
she  mended,  an'  the  trousers  an'  little  dresses 
she's  patched,  an'  the  bumped  heads  she's 
kissed.  But  when  I  go  I'll  have  nothin'  more'n 
a  bunch  o'  lavender  an'  sweet-peas  to  give  him. 
Land!  land!  ain't  it  queer  how  it  happens! 
I  believe  I'd  'a'  been  a  real  talented  stockin'- 
mender  an'  bump-kisser,  mebbe,  if  I'd  'a'  been 
set  that  way." 

The  creak-creak  of  the  rocker  punctuated 

the  little  silence  that  trailed  in  the  wake  of 

her  words.     A  golden-thighed  bee  droned  by, 

full-fed  from  the  hollyhocks.     Before  her,  in 

209 


210  BLUE  GINGHAM  POLKS 

long,  fragrant,  crooked  rows,  burned  her 
flowers :  extravagantly  colored,  streaky  purple- 
and- white  baby-pansies ;  flaunting  hussies  of 
scarlet  poppies;  nasturtiums  in  vivid,  sappy 
crimsons  and  oranges.  Her  garden  was  Rose- 
mary's imagination.  With  the  seeds  she 
planted  her  old,  hoarded  girl-dreams  of  ro- 
mance, her  shy,  secret  joys,  regrets  and  hopes, 
watching  them  blossom  into  visibleness  before 
her  eyes.  But  she  never  confided  her  fantasy 
to  any  one.  In  New  England  one  does  not  con- 
fide. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Rosemary,  suddenly,  so 
gently  violent  that  the  startled  bee  postponed 
his  attack  on  the  rambler  rose  by  the  porch 
step  and  boomed  reproachfully  away,  "some- 
times I  wish  I  could  do  more  in  life  than 
pickin'  flowers  for  weddin's  an'  buryin's,  an' 
makin'  baby  clothes  for  other  folks'  babies. 
There,  Rosemary  Sweet,  I  sh'd  think  you'd  be 
ashamed  o'  yourself,  talkin'  so,  an'  you  a 
church  member  an'  the  treasurer  of  the  Ladies' 
Aid!  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  you,  I 
don't!"  She  laughed  as  she  scolded  herself, 
but  the  eyes  above  the  edges  of  the  laugh  were 
wistful.  Then  they  crinkled  into  sudden 
pleasure. 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING  211 

"Good-aft'noon,  Dora-child,"  she  called, 
anticipatively.  "You're  comin'  up  an'  make 
me  a  real  nice  long  visit,  I  hope?" 

The  girl  at  the  gate  shook  her  head.  "Not 
jus'  now,  Miss  Rosemary."  She  rested  a 
brown-paper  bundle  on  the  fence  wearily.  "I'm 
fittin'  Miss  Tibbitts  an'  cuttin'  out  the  minis- 
ter's wife  to-day — but  I'm  comin'  around  soon. 
I  been  plannin'  to  a  long  while  back.  What 
you  doin'.  Miss  Rosemary?  You're  so  nice 
an'  cool  an'  peacefullike  up  there." 

Miss  Rosemary  held  the  work  in  her  lap  for 
the  girl  to  see.  It  w^as  very  tiny,  dainty — 
baby-frail.  The  girl  looked  at  it  silently ;  then 
her  eyes  met  the  older  woman's  in  a  strange 
intimacy  of  woman  understanding,  and  the 
shy,  sweet  color  stained  her  clear,  girl's  skin. 

"It's  for  Jennie  Gordon's  baby,  when  it 
comes,"  said  Miss  Rosemary,  softly. 

Impulsively  the  girl's  hands  went  out,  in  a 
little  gust  of  tenderness. 

"Miss  Rosemary — you're  the  dearest!"  she 
cried.  "It  always  rests  me  to  come  by.  I've 
never  seen  you  when  you  weren't  makin'  a 
little  dress  like  that." 

"There's  always  babies  in  Shady  Valley, 
Dora — babies  an'  flowers,"  smiled  Miss  Rose- 


212  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

mary.  She  leaned  forward,  suddenly  solemn. 
"I  hope  I'll  be  makin'  one — like  that — for  you 
before  I  die,  Dora-child,"  she  half -whispered. 

The  girl  at  the  gate  fumbled  with  her  bundle 
confusedly.  "Land !  Miss  Mary,  I  guess  not — 
meF'  she  smiled  pinkly.  "Well,  I  mustn't  be 
lettin'  grass  grow  under  my  feet.  If  you're 
still  settin'  out  when  I  come  back,  mebbe  I'll 
stop  up  a  moment,  if  it  isn't  too  late." 

"It's  never  too  late  by  the  clock  for  me  to 
be  glad  to  see  you,  dearie." 

Miss  Kosemary  watched  the  slender  figure 
hurry  away  through  a  fine  mist  of  white  dust, 
nodding  to  herself  wisely. 

"Land !  land !"  she  breathed,  softly.  "Think 
o'  bein'  eighteen  an'  pretty  an'  in  love!  Ain't 
it  wonderful !"  She  paused,  awed  by  the  age- 
old  miracle  of  youth.  A  boyish  young  fellow, 
in  smart  flannels  and  tennis-shoes,  waved  his 
hand  in  passing;  then  looked  anxiously  ahead 
and  disappeared  Doraward.  Miss  Rosemary's 
smile  deepened,  while  the  rocker  took  up  the 
burden  of  her  reflections  in  excited  creaks  over 
the  uneven  flooring. 

"He's  a  real  good  boy,  Harry  is,  an'  she'll 
make  him  a  splendid  wife.  I'm  glad  Dora  ain't 
goin'  to  miss  livin'.     It  ain't  likely  flowers 


KOSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING  213 

could  make  it  up  to  her  like  they  do  to  me. 
But  I  wonder  his  mother's  willin',  with  all  her 
notions.  She  had  her  heart  set  on  his  marryin' 
that  Evelyn-girl  from  the  city  that  was  visitin' 
'em  a  piece  back.  Laws!  she  was  real  up-'n'- 
comin'  an'  fixed-jes'-so-lookin',  with  them 
narrer  skirts  of  hers  an'  fol-de-rols,  but  I  don't 
s'pose  she  could  'a'  baked  a  pie  or  swep'  a  room 
to  save  her  life.  She  was  jes'  like  a  magazine- 
cover — real  nice  to  set  'n'  look  at,  but  no  use 
on  airth." 

The  drowsy  afternoon  jogged  comfortably 
across  the  moments.  Miss  Rosemary's  gray 
head  drooped  forward,  and  the  white  heap  lay 
loosely  in  her  lap  under  lax,  folded  hands. 

Sudden  footsteps  crunched  up  the  gravel 
walk;  a  hand  touched  her  shoulder  convul- 
sively.   Her  startled  eyes  flew  open. 

"Why,  Dora-child,  how  you  startled  me!  I 
guess  I  must  of  dropped  off,  kind-of — " 

"Miss  Rosemary" — the  girl's  voice  was 
queerly  hurried  and  strained — "will  you — I 
mean  can't  we  go  into  the  house  a  moment?  I 
go't  somethin'  I  want  to  tell  you." 

But  she  could  not  wait  for  the  telling.  In 
the  dim,  prim  little  parlor,  dropping  limply 
on  the  slippery,  horse-hair  sofa,  she  began  to 


214  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

cry  in  fierce  little  jerks,  as  though  the  sobs 
came  bleeding  from  her  pride.  Miss  Rosemary 
hurried  out  into  the  kitchen  and  returned  bear- 
ing a  glass  spicily  odorous. 

"There,  drink  a  drop  o'  my  elderberry 
cordial,  an'  then  finish  your  cry  out,  nice  an' 
comfortable,"  she  said  cheerfully.  '^That's 
right !  I  don't  b'lieve  in  corkin'  up  tears.  Bet- 
ter out  with  'em  an'  get  it  over,  says  I.  Now, 
dearie,  what  is  it  all  about?  You  tell  me,  an' 
we'll  fix  it  up  somehow." 

"It's— it's— fi^arrt/.'' 

Rosemary  Sweet  laughed  in  soft  relief. 
"Land  sakes!  is  that  all?"  she  cried.  "Why, 
I  was  'fraid  mebbe  somethin'  had  happened  to 
hear  you  take  on  so." 

"It  has,  somethin'  has."  Dora  sat  up  and 
turned  her  tragic  young  face  to  the  older 
woman,  her  slender,  needle-pricked  fingers 
stained  and  twisted  in  her  lap.  "We  were 
down  to  the  old  bridge  jus'  now,  lookin'  at  the 
falls  an'  talkin'.  An',  suddenly,  Harry  turned 
to  me  an' — an' — O,  O,  Miss  Rosemary !  he  said 
— he  said  he  loved  me."  For  an  instant  the 
joyous  memory  made  the  girl's  face  too 
sacredly  bright  for  the  other  to  look  at;  then 
it  clouded  over  pitifully.     "An' — jus'  as  he 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING  215 

finished  tellin'  me  that,  Miss  Rosemary — mind 
you,  jus'  after — his  father  came  along  the  path 
an'  ordered  him  to  leave  me  an'  go  home — 
an' — an' — Harry  went — he  went.  Miss  Rose- 
mary— " 

Absorbed  in  her  luxury  of  grief,  the  girl  did 
not  see  the  sudden,  sharp  pain  twist  the  face 
opposite  her.  Rosemary  Sweet  caught  her 
breath.  Her  faded  eyes,  staring  at  the  painted 
china  vase  on  the  center-table,  seemed  looking 
down  forgotten  aisles  of  Long  Ago.  A  loud 
rapping  on  the  front  door  brought  her  back  to 
the  Present  with  a  start.  She  got  to  her  feet 
stiffly,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  taken  on  years 
since  she  sat  down,  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Is  she  here?    Tell  me  quick!" 

The  words  tripped  over  one  another  eagerly. 

"Harry  Morrison,"  said  Rosemary,  sternly, 
"what  you  want  to  know  for?  Tell  me 
that!" 

Her  eyes  sought  the  boy's,  asking,  challeng- 
ing.   And  his,  haggard,  honest,  answered  her. 

"Because  I  love  her.  Miss  Rosemary,  that's 
why,"  was  all  he  said  straightly.  "Now  may 
I  come  in — please."  She  opened  the  screen 
door,  pointing. 

"There,"  she  told  him,  briefly.    He  went,  tall 


216  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

and  tender,  like  a  young  god  or  a  little,  sorry 
child.  Even  with  her  back  turned,  the  gray- 
haired  woman  could  see  the  looks  of  the  two 
as  he  stooped  to  the  girl  and  caught  her  hands. 

"Sweetheart — forgive  me!"  Then  the  low 
sound  of  a  kiss.  The  maiden-heart  of  the  old 
woman  in  the  hallway  thrilled  with  the  ghostly 
touch  of  bygone  kisses  on  her  lips.  The  air 
was  a-rustle  with  memories  laid  away  in  laven- 
der these  thirty  years.  They  crowded  about 
her  now,  the  echo  of  long-forgotten  words  vocal 
to  her  ears.  Like  an  accompaniment,  the  low 
voices  in  the  parlor  crooned  and  murmured 
across  the  sympathetic  air. 

"Miss  Eosemary!" 

She  started  guiltily.    "Yes — yes,  I'm  here." 

She  hurried  across  to  the  parlor  and  stood 
there  behind  them,  smiling  at  their  clasped 
hands  and  radiant  eyes.  There  have  been  great 
discoveries  made  early  and  late  in  this  world ; 
none  greater  than  the  commonest  of  all,  love. 
To  each  two  that  find  it  together,  it  is  a  thing 
new,  amazing,  unique,  unknown  to  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

"Miss  Kosemary,"  said  Harry,  solemnly, 
"she's  said  she  loves  me — ^loves  me!"  He  flung 
back  his  head,  with  a  long,  slow  breath  at  the 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING  217 

wonder  of  it.  "I  want  to  marry  her  right 
away,  Miss  Rosemary — now."  His  voice  was 
argumentative,  as  though  meeting  unspoken 
opposition.  "Father  and  mother  have  got  a 
fool  notion  in  their  heads  that  I'm  to  marry 
one  of  those  Miss  Fuss-and-Feathers,  with  a 
pot  of  tainted  money  and  a  brewer-father,  that 
they  have  up  here  from  the  city,  week-ends. 
But  they're  dead  wrong — I'm  going  to  marry 
Dora;  and  what's  more,  I'm  going  to  marry  her 
this  afternoon." 

"Wait,  children!"  Miss  Rosemary  smiled. 
"Wait  till  I  get  my  breath  an'  my  thinkin'- 
cap  on."  She  looked  thoughtfully  away  into 
the  yellow  afternoon.  The  mellowing  light 
touched  her  soft  face  like  gentle  fingertips 
caressing  the  wrinkles. 

"Where  is  your  father  now,  Harry?"  she 
asked,  suddenly. 

"Down  by  the  bridge  when  I  left  him,"  an- 
swered the  boy.  He  hesitated,  flushing.  "We 
had — quite  an  argument — I  guess  likely  he's 
there  yet.  Father  always  stays  put  when  he's 
mad."  Shamed  laughter  trickled  through  the 
words. 

"/  know."  She  nodded  rememberingly,  un- 
noting  their  surprise.    "Listen  to  me,  you  chil- 


218  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

dren,"  she  said,  whimsically.  "Do  you  think 
you'll  be  able  to  entertain  yourselves  while  I 
step  out  a  minute?  Because  there's  a  picture- 
album  to  look  at  if  you  get  lonesome,  or  the 
'Pleasant  Thoughts  for  All  the  Year.'  I'll  be 
right  back.  Now  don't  you  stir  till  I  come, 
an'  then  we'll  see." 

The  flower-petals  swirled  in  mad  little  eddies 
of  color-flecks  as  her  skirts  brushed  rudely 
by  them;  the  dust  spurted  like  liquid  powder 
under  her  quick  feet.  In  her  eyes  ached  re- 
membrance and  the  shadow  of  past-shed  tears. 

He  was  sitting  as  his  son  had  left  him,  stiffly, 
on  the  rustic  bench  by  the  stream.  At  the 
rustle  of  her  coming,  he  turned,  startled,  and 
got  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"Why — good-afternoon — Miss  Sweet,"  he 
said,  awkwardly. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once ;  only  stood  look- 
ing at  him,  smiling  sadly  through  the  wrinkles 
and  the  pitiful  scars  of  age,  until  she  saw  the 
big  hand  begin  to  tremble  on  the  seat-back, 
and  a  painful  red  stain  his  cheeks  under  the 
white  thatch  of  his  hair. 

'^Rosemary!"  the  old  man  cried,  slowly. 
The  name  sounded  rusty  on  his  tongue.     He 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING  219 

took  a  step  forward;  then  paused  at  her  ges- 
ture, waiting. 

"Listen  to  me,  John  Morrison,"  she  cried. 
"I'm  goin'  to  say  my  say,  an'  you're  goin'  to 
listen  while  I  say  it.  Then  it's  between  you 
'n'  the  Lord."  She  pointed  abruptly  back 
along  the  way  she  had  come.  "They's  a  boy 
an'  a  girl  at  my  house  this  livin'  minute,  sittin' 
in  my  parlor,  makin'  love.  At  least,  I  hope 
they  are.  The  boy's  your  son.  He'd  ought  to 
do  it  well."  He  shrank  visibly  from  the  dreary 
humor  of  her  words. 

"The  girl  is  Dora  King,  as  nice  a  girl  as 
you'll  find  in  seven  counties.  An'  they  love  each 
other.    Now  what  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

The  bullfrog  in  the  rushes  shrilled  an  entire 
aria  before  he  answered  doggedly:  "Harold 
must  make  a  good  match.  A  young  man  has 
no  chance  these  days  without  position  and 
wealth.  I  shall  not  allow  him  to  throw  himself 
away." 

"Throw  himself  away!"  Her  voice  cut  like 
an  edged  thing  through  the  grim  little  silence 
following  his  words.  Suddenly  she  stepped 
forward,  holding  out  wrinkled,  shaking  hands. 
Her  softened  face,  upturned  to  his,  was  almost 
a  girl's  face  again,  flushing,  virginal,  shy. 


220  BLUE  GINGHAM  FOLKS 

"John" — the  words  were  a  shadow  of  sound 
— "have  you  forgotten — everything?" 

The  man  made  an  uncouth  noise  of  pain. 
His  twisted  face  begged  her  mutely;  but  she 
shook  her  head,  strangely  exalted.  "No,  we 
got  to  remember — it's  the  only  way."  She 
gestured  quaintly  to  her  gray  hair.  "We're 
gittin'  old,  you  'n'  me,  John.  But  we  weren't 
always  old.  That  time  we  went  mayflowerin' 
in  Eppleby's  Grove  an'  you  kissed  me — we 
weren't  old  then.  Nor  yet  when  we  uster  come 
home  through  the  fields  from  prayer  meetin' 
an'  watch  the  haystacks  all  ragged  against  the 
big,  red  moon.  Mebbe  you've  forgot  those 
times — but  I  ain't.  I  shall  remember  'em  till 
I  die — an'  after." 

"Don't — Kosemary!'*  he  begged  her.  "I've 
hoped  that  mebbe  you'd  forgotten — after  all 
these  years." 

"Thirty  years  is  long  enough  f'r  a  woman 
to  grow  old  an'  white-haired  an'  wrinkled  in, 
but  it  ain't  long  enough  f'r  her  to  forget  her 
first  kiss,  John."  She  shook  her  head,  smiling. 
"I  ain't  askin'  f'r  pity — land,  no!  But  I'm 
tryin'  to  make  you  understand.  Your  father 
said  the  same  identical  thing  that  you've  just 
said,  an'  you  listened  to  him.    You  know  what 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBERING  221 

happened.  I  ain't  blamin'  you.  I  been  happy 
enough  with  my  posies  an'  makin'  dresses  f  r 
other  women's  babies."  She  broke  off,  peering 
into  his  working  face  with  tear-blinded  eyes. 
"Why,  I  b'lieve  you  do  remember,  John," 

"There  ain't  been  a  harvest  moon  in  th'  last 
thirty  of  'em  that  I  could  bear  to  look  on,"  he 
said,  solemnly.  "I  ain't  never  been  may- 
flowerin'  since  then."  He  paused,  prodding 
his  courage.  "We  he  old  folks,  Rosemary — 
mebbe  th'  good  Lord's  give  me  this  chanct  a 
purpose  to  say  'I'm  sorry'  in." 

The  sunset  glow  caressed  them,  like  peace 
made  visible.  There  was  yielding  in  the  soft- 
ened look  of  his  face,  and,  seeing  it,  she  turned, 
smiling,  to  the  path,  groping  for  it  through 
the  mist  that  dimmed  her  vision ;  then  paused 
an  instant  on  the  edge  of  flight.  "It's  between 
you  an'  the  Lord  what  you're  goin'  to  do, 
John,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  guess  the  matter's 
in  pretty  safe  hands.  You'll  come  back  'long 
of  me  to  my  house  an'  make  those  young  folks 
happy.  An'  they's  one  thing  I  want  you  sh'd 
remember.  I  been  thankin'  God  f'r  those 
walks  an'  that  kiss  every  day  f'r  nigh  on  thirty 
years !" 


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